Floating in the ink-black deep of the ocean—so deep beneath Sabaody that he could already see the hazy glow of Fish-Man Island shimmering like a distant carnival light—Gale let out a long, tired sigh.
His eyes tracked the five Sea Kings barreling toward him like passenger plane–sized torpedoes. Their massive jaws parted. Rows of teeth glistened. The water shook with their movement.
Gale's expression?
Completely deadpan. The expression of a man who'd been through far too much nonsense to be impressed by a giant, man-eating sea serpent today.
"...Great," he muttered. "It's Tuesday again."
He turned lazily in the water, eyes landing on the coated pirate ship floating behind him—completely intact, perfectly still, and utterly packed with cowering pirates.
The lot of them were pressed against the ship's inner walls like frightened goldfish in a glass bowl, clutching onto whatever dignity they had left.
And there, right in the middle of the chaos, stood the reason Gale hadn't already died from stress-induced mutiny.
Rayleigh.
The Dark King gave him a big ol' grin and offered a casual thumbs-up.
Gale gave him a very different gesture in return.
To think this whole disaster started a week ago. He'd followed the old pirate thinking he'd score some wisdom, maybe a shiny new haki trick, maybe—dare he dream?—a training montage that didn't end in hospitalization.
Instead?
Rayleigh had taken him outside and said, in the most relaxed voice imaginable,
"Go on, attack me."
Simple. Familiar territory.
Gale had faced old monsters before—Florencio, Garp, a nun with a bad temper and strong throwing arm—so he thought he knew how this worked. You charge in, you get smacked into the dirt, lesson learned.
But Rayleigh?
Rayleigh didn't just smack him into the dirt. He punked him. Like severely.
He deflected everything with one finger, one hand behind his back, half-asleep, humming a tune like this was some light yoga session.
After Gale faceplanted for the sixth time, Rayleigh nodded sagely and said,'
"Alright. I've got a good read on your level."
Then came the real surprise.
He led Gale to a pirate crew—nice guys, just wanted to coat their ship, maybe go on an adventure without dying—and commandeered their ship like it was a taxi.
Apparently, they'd mistaken Rayleigh for just another ship-coater, which was… tragically common, apparently.
He did coat their ship, to be fair. And then he climbed aboard, patted the crew on the head, and sailed off—with Gale in tow—into the abyss below.
Once they hit the right depth, he turned to Gale and said,
"Alright. Out you go. Fight the wildlife."
And then threw him out.
Literally. Like a bag of laundry.
That was a week ago. A week of deep-sea beatdowns, interrupted only by Rayleigh popping open a new ship's coating like a soda can, waving politely at the pirates inside, and chucking Gale right back out into the water like an unwanted pool toy.
This was the fifth crew. Fifth batch of victims.
He was starting to think Rayleigh enjoyed this. No, scratch that—he knew Rayleigh enjoyed this. The man was grinning right now as Gale braced himself for round five.
The Sea Kings roared. Gale cracked his knuckles.
"Alright, boys," he muttered, bubbles escaping from his mouth, "you wanna dance? Let's dance. But fair warning—your dentist is gonna need a deep-sea diving license when I'm done."
He surged forward, a blur of motion even in the crushing depths, muscles flexing, eyes locked on the biggest one of the bunch.
Back on the ship, one of the pirates whimpered, "He's gonna die, isn't he?"
Rayleigh just took a sip from a fresh cup of tea.
"No faith in the youth these days," he said, chuckling. "Though… yeah. He might die a little. Builds character."
...
The lights in Shakky's bar flickered warm and low, casting soft amber glows across the worn wooden counters and dust-speckled bottles. Outside, the Sabaody night hummed—quiet, but alive. Wind rustled the trees. Distant laughter echoed from the groves.
Inside, Gale sat hunched over a stool, one arm sprawled across the counter, the other nursing a half-finished drink like it owed him money. His hair was still damp with saltwater.
His shirt was torn at the sleeve. His eyes were bloodshot and half-lidded, but full of that warm, stupid kind of clarity that only came with being very, very drunk.
He blinked lazily, raised his head, and grinned like a man who thought he was being clever.
"Well, if it isn't the old devil's wife," he slurred, tilting his glass slightly in greeting. "Fancy meetin' you here…"
Shakky didn't even look up from the bottle she was uncorking. She just chuckled, her cigarette glowing softly between two fingers.
"I've been here, sweetheart. I poured you that drink, remember?"
Gale blinked again, processing that. He looked down at the glass in his hand like it was a small betrayal, then let out a snort.
She poured him another anyway. "Old devil, huh?" she asked, lips curled in amusement. "Did you just call Rayleigh that?"
Gale scoffed, waving a hand like he was brushing away common sense. "If he ain't an old devil, then what else can he be? Man threw me into the bottom of the ocean and told me to wrestle the local wildlife!"
Shakky leaned on the bar, propping her chin up with one hand, eyes glinting with mirth. "You know you don't have to do it, right? You can quit. Go home. Walk away."
Gale turned to her like she'd just said the moon was made of cheese and taxes weren't real.
"…What am I, stupid?" he said, scandalized. "There's no way I'd waste an opportunity like this."
He hiccuped immediately afterward, then straightened up with all the dignity of a drunk man trying to prove a point.
"Besides… it's actually kinda fun." He paused, a flicker of something fond surfacing in his voice. "Reminds me of Torino Island. Back when I was basically doing something every second of the day. Waking up to a bird trying to eat me, dodging poison darts by lunch, sprinting through exploding trees before dinner…"
Shakky exhaled smoke through her nose. "Mmm. Sounds peaceful."
Gale smiled into his drink. "Good times."
She tilted her head at him. "So if it's fun, and you think it's a good opportunity… why are you complaining?"
Gale blinked at her. Then squinted. Then pointed at her with the kind of grave seriousness only a drunk person could muster.
"…How should I know? I'm drunk."
He slumped forward again, his forehead resting against the cool wood of the counter. Shakky laughed, the sound low and knowing.
Gale reached for his drink blindly, took another sip, then sighed long and slow.
"It's probably 'cause my old teacher had a bad temper," he muttered into the bar. "Any sign of complaining and he'd smack me sideways—elegantly, but still. Maybe I'm just making up for all the whining I held back back then…"
He paused.
"Rayleigh's got a surprisingly good temper. Gotta take advantage of that while I can."
Shakky smiled as she flicked the ash from her cigarette into the tray, her eyes narrowing with a glint of interest. There was something about the boy—well, the young man now—that caught her curiosity more than most.
Not just the way he fought, or how he held his liquor, but the way he spoke of his teachers, like a legend written into his bones.
"I know you studied under someone," she said, voice light but probing. "Some mysterious swordsman on Karate Island, right? But I don't know much else…"
She let the question hang, just barely.
"Can you tell me about him?"
Gale's grin spread wide, almost boyish. His face lit up with something that wasn't cockiness for once—something warmer. Deeper. He tapped a finger against his chest like he was making a vow.
"Lady," he said with a lazy chuckle, "besides myself, there's only one thing I don't get tired of talkin' about… and that's the old man."
He leaned back in his stool, staring up at the ceiling as if trying to picture it—no, relive it.
"Don Florencio de la Rosa," he said, with exaggerated grandeur, rolling the name like it was both a title and a melody. "Master of swordplay, flowery footwork, and dramatic speeches that could make even the ocean blush."
He closed his eyes, a faint nostalgic smile pulling at his lips.
"He had this way of walking and talking, y'know? Like every step he took was choreographed by a choir of violins. Made you feel like if you blinked, you'd miss a miracle."
Shakky tilted her head, listening silently.
"He taught me how to hold a sword," Gale went on. "How to breathe. How to carry grief without letting it crush you. And he did it all while allergic to roses and still carrying one everywhere he went. Said beauty was worth a sneeze."
He chuckled softly.
"Used to yell at me every time I got sloppy. But he wasn't loud or violent. Florencio could kill your spirit with a raised eyebrow and a poetic insult."
He raised his glass, half-full now. The rum swirled slowly.
"I used to think he was just a tired old relic. Turns out he was just tired. Carried so much pain, but never let it stop him from teaching me how to be… something better."
He paused, the smile now touched with something quieter.
"He trained me. Gave me direction. Almost everything I am, good or bad at, traces back to him."
Gale downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down gently, like it meant something.
Shakky watched him for a beat longer, the glow of her cigarette casting faint shadows across her face. Then, without a word, she poured him another.
The room fell quiet again, warm and low-lit, with nothing but the hum of the Sabaody night and the memory of roses in the air.
...
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