Steel clanged through the fog like a dinner bell for lunatics.
Gale spun, blade in hand, knocking away a curved saber that came out of nowhere—only for a second attacker to sweep in from behind and nearly clip his shoulder. He pivoted, twisting low and increasing the density in his arm just in time to absorb the blow, which barely staggered him but sent a sharp jolt through his joints.
"Okay," he muttered, swiping his sword through the air, "this is getting real old, real fast."
Another strike—this one from the side. He blocked it, then retaliated with a hard upward slash that should've gutted the attacker. Should've. But right before contact, another blur darted in and smacked his blade away like they'd been planning the whole thing five moves in advance.
Again.
They vanished back into the mist like smoke.
"You guys ever heard of fighting fair?" Gale called out, his voice bouncing uselessly in the white. "No? Course not. That'd be too easy."
He straightened his posture, breathing steady, gaze sharp. This wasn't a fight anymore. It was a performance. A looping, frustrating, completely one-sided dance where he wasn't allowed to land a single clean hit.
Not because he couldn't—oh no—but because the moment he almost did, someone else would leap in to mess it up.
They were coordinated. No talking, no signals, just seamless teamwork. And they weren't weak, either—no fodder pirates or thugs here. Each one moved with precision, confidence, experience.
They weren't trying to kill him directly, not yet anyway. Just… wear him down. Chip away. Like wolves testing a bear.
"A really handsome, smart, charmingly roguish bear," Gale muttered as he blocked another flurry of blows.
Truth be told, they were starting to get on his nerves.
He'd been fighting them for… what, fifteen minutes? Thirty? An hour? It was hard to tell in the fog. Time didn't feel real in here.
"Of course Blight's got ex-marines as subordinates," he grunted, flicking a knife out of the air with a twist of his sword. "Can't just have normal creepy fog ninjas. No, gotta be the elite model. Figures."
A sudden flash of movement to his left. He countered it without thinking, steel scraping against steel.
His frustration was growing, but so was his understanding. He could tell—these people had done this before. Not just once or twice. Hundreds of times. Maybe not with him, maybe not in fog, but with someone, somewhere. They moved like soldiers who didn't care who the enemy was—they just had a system. A formation. A rhythm.
Gale knew when he was being stalled.
He was knee-deep in elite muscle, and they weren't letting him out of the kiddie pool.
He backed off slightly, adjusting the density of his chest as another blow bounced off his ribs like a hammer on steel. His stamina was holding—for now. But he could already feel the strain starting to creep in. Constantly altering his body's weight, his sword's weight, timing counters and dodges with almost no visual confirmation.
To make things worse, he couldn't even rely on his ears because of how many people were around him. And moving too far too fast? That'd mean dropping his density and risking real injury if someone got a lucky shot in. Not ideal.
So, option one: push forward, keep hunting for Blight, pray for a break in the fog, and get ambushed until he collapses. A classic strategy known as "hope and vibes."
Option two: stay put, let them come, defend until the fog lifts... or until he drops.
Gale sighed, ducking another strike. "Man, it's like being stuck in a boss fight where the boss is a fog machine and the adds have better stats than you."
He considered yelling again, just for the satisfaction of it. Maybe something dramatic, like "Face me yourself, Blight!" or "Come out and fight me, you coward!"
But honestly? That just felt like asking to get shot in the back.
No. Just—no.
Gale exhaled through his nose, dodging another fog-blurred blade by muscle memory alone.
This entire situation? Completely nonsensical. He was stuck in a white void of soggy doom, fighting invisible ex-Marines who fought like they shared one brain cell—but it was a really efficient brain cell.
He'd already gone through every logical tactic he could think of. Search. Stand ground. Redirect. Tank. Bait. None of it worked.
So maybe… just maybe… logic wasn't the answer here.
Gale parried a sword without looking, flinched slightly at a bullet pinging off his shoulder, then narrowed his eyes.
Nope. This wasn't a "big brain" fight. This was one of those problems. Like when a door only opens if you push and then pull and then kick it twice and insult its mother. The solution wasn't strategy.
It was nonsense. Which meant, tragically…
He had to trust that feeling.
That weird, low-grade hum that had been crawling under his skin since he set foot in Vashiri. The sensation that his devil fruit—or something inside him—had been poking him with a stick, whispering, "Hey. Hey, you. Try something stupid."
It was subtle, like a song playing two rooms over. Faint, persistent, annoying.
He'd ignored it all week.
But maybe, just maybe… the fog, the pressure, the exhaustion—it was pushing him toward something.
It was no different than grasping at straws, but what other option did Gale have other than turning tail to run and leaving everyone to their fates?
"God, I'm gonna regret this," Gale muttered under his breath, rubbing the side of his head with the back of his blade. "This is either genius or the dumbest thing I've ever done. And that's a high bar."
Then, with a final breath, he stopped moving.
Not just physically—he stopped. Sword lowered. Posture relaxed. Eyes closed.
The fog's ghostly chill licked at his skin. He could still feel the killers around him. Shifting. Circling. Hesitating for half a second.
Then lunging.
Steel clanged against steel, boots thudded against grass, and several weapons struck Gale in quick succession. An axe bounced off his back. A bullet ricocheted from his collarbone. A halberd jabbed his thigh and snapped on impact.
But Gale didn't move.
He had increased his body's density to the point where he might as well have been a statue. His skin was tougher than stone. His muscles like reinforced iron. Not quite invincible—but enough to tank what they were throwing at him. For now.
Inside his mind, it was quiet. Eerily quiet. Like he'd dunked his soul in a sensory deprivation tank.
He followed the feeling. That itch in the back of his skull. That strange gravity somewhere in his gut. It wasn't clear. It wasn't logical. It was just… there. A pull. A weight. A whisper, saying:
There's more.
More to your fruit. More to your ability. You're not using it right. Not completely.
'Density isn't just about you...'
That thought dropped into his head like a coin down a well.
Not just about his body. Not just his sword. Not just physical mass. It was about presence. Pressure. Maybe…
Space, the potential to occupy it, and in what capacity...
...
The cold mist clung to everything like damp silk, wrapping the stone walls of the capital in a dense, oppressive quiet. Only the soft rustling of armor, the occasional cough, and the far-off clang of metal broke the silence.
Isuka stood at the edge of the battlements, arms folded tight, lips pressed into a thin line as she scanned the unchanging blanket of fog before them.
"Still no movement," she muttered.
Remiel, leaning on his halberd beside her, nodded grimly. "It's been nearly half an hour."
"Thirty-two minutes," she corrected with a glance at the pocket watch she'd clipped to her belt. "And not a single damn change. No sounds. No flashes. Not even a shout."
"It's unnatural," Remiel said, eyes narrowing. "And he brought that monk with him too. Not exactly the picture of caution."
Isuka's jaw clenched. "I hate not knowing. I hate just standing here."
She glanced down the wall where the knights were still stationed—more for morale than actual combat readiness at this point—and the marines stood watch with rifles in hand and nerves frayed raw. Most of them had stopped trying to peer through the fog a long time ago. It was like looking into smoke-filled water.
"They went in to break the stalemate," Isuka said quietly, "and now we're just supposed to wait. That's not a plan. That's a gamble."
Remiel sighed. "Well, it's his plan. And the boy does tend to make an art form out of reckless improvisation."
Isuka didn't smile.
But then something shifted.
Her brows furrowed. "...Did you see that?"
Remiel straightened. "What?"
"There—" she pointed, "—in the fog. A glint."
The knights behind them tensed. Rifles rose. Spears and swords followed.
And then—
Wind.
A sudden gust rolled through the dense white mist, unnatural and sharp. And with it—
Petals.
Dozens. No, hundreds—maybe thousands of them. Crimson rose petals, caught on a wind that shouldn't exist, swirled and danced above the fog like a storm of color and scent. The defenders gasped. A few knights lowered their weapons in sheer awe.
"Is that—?" Remiel started, eyes wide.
But before anyone could finish the thought, the ground shook violently and the fog parted.
Just for a moment. Just long enough.
Enough to catch a glimpse of that thing.
Enough to know something had changed.
For a moment, everything stood still.
Gale didn't move. The fog didn't move. Even the air, heavy with tension and dew, seemed to hold its breath.
The ex-Marines—trained killers with years of New World blood and scars to their names—watched as he raised his sword, his movements calm but deliberate, like a conductor lifting his baton before a devastating crescendo. His eyes flicked open slowly, and something in them had changed. It wasn't fury. It wasn't desperation.
It was clarity.
Like he'd finally remembered something he'd been trying to forget. Or like he'd let go of something he didn't even know he was dragging.
He looked lighter. Not physically, of course—his body was currently dense enough to make a Sea King cry—but lighter, like a man who had finally said "screw it" to the weight of his own expectations.
That smile shouldn't have been reassuring.
It wasn't.
One of the ex-Marines took an unconscious step back.
Another one muttered, "He's about to do something stupid."
They weren't wrong.
Because the moment Gale began moving again, they all felt it. Something inside their instincts—the ancient part that once feared lightning and fire—screamed at them to run. But their bodies, trained and tempered through years of battle, held firm.
For now.
They attacked.
Axes swung. Bullets were fired. Swords slashed.
And none of it mattered.
The clang of steel against flesh was dull and impotent. Their weapons bounced off Gale's skin like they were poking a battleship with forks. He didn't even flinch.
Not because he was tanking it for the drama. He just genuinely didn't notice.
Because in that moment, Gale was somewhere else entirely.
He wasn't thinking about the pain.
He wasn't thinking about the fog.
He wasn't even thinking about Blight.
His attention was entirely focused on the feeling—that slippery, tantalizing thread of possibility that had been tugging at his subconscious for days, now suddenly uncoiling like a string under tension. It wasn't logical. It wasn't clear. But it felt right.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his rapier. The blade began to extend upward like a sliver of moonlight being pulled taut toward the heavens.
It didn't grow broader. It didn't shimmer with special effects or glow with ominous energy. It just kept extending. A single impossible line of cold, condensed steel that cut through fog like a spear through smoke.
One of the ex-Marines whispered, "What the hell is he doing?"
Gale gnashed his teeth, sweat dripping from his chin as the pressure mounted. The sword was heavy now—stupidly heavy. Like trying to hold up a collapsing building by the doorknob. His arm trembled, so he cranked up the density in his biceps and shoulder.
His back screamed, so he doubled it in his spine and legs too.
His body was screaming, his joints locking like rusted gears, but his grin only grew sharper.
"Alright, let's see if this works..." he muttered.
Then, with a violent crack of air, he swung down.
The blade, suddenly returned to its full, unmerciful density mid-swing, carved the fog in two like a divine guillotine. The force of the swing alone would've leveled a smaller ship, and that wasn't even the end of it.
Because as he moved his wrist in a delicate, almost mocking spiral—
Petals.
Crimson petals bloomed in the air, conjured by the same twisting motion that Florencio had once mastered with grace and heartbreak.
But this wasn't Florencio's technique.
This was Gale's.
And it wasn't beauty he conjured from the steel. It was devastation.
Petals flooded from the edge of the rapier like a bloody tide, whipping through the fog like razors caught in a hurricane.
They danced and swirled, ripping through the mist, cutting silhouettes into shadows. The ex-Marines' shapes were obscured by fog one second—and slashed away the next.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't poetic.
It was a swirling wave of floral violence.
...
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