Inside the private room assigned to him, Gale sat on the edge of the bed, wiping his body down with a damp cloth. The salty sea air left a thin, sticky film on his skin, and after everything that had happened today, he needed to freshen up.
It had been a long day. The first in three years that he hadn't spent the entirety of it training—though if he was being honest, he wanted to. His body was used to the grueling regimen of morning drills, sparring sessions, and endurance runs (which occasionally involved outrunning giant birds trying to make a meal out of him while picking herbs).
Compared to that, sitting in a chair and talking felt almost lazy.
Still, he'd been productive.
Half the day had been spent in the captain's quarters, asking Jack every question he could think of. He wanted—needed—to figure out where exactly he was in the timeline of this world. The last thing he wanted was to run into some big-shot pirate before he was remotely ready.
So, between asking about Centauria and other islands in the South Blue, he carefully pried for information about the state of the world.
What he got was… interesting.
By Jack's knowledge, it had been nineteen years since Gol D. Roger's execution. That meant the Great Pirate Era was well underway, but crucially, there were still three years until a rubbery kid from Foosha Village set out to change the world.
That was good news.
It meant he had time. Time to get stronger, time to learn more about the world, and most importantly, time to figure out what the hell he actually wanted to do with his life. Because right now? He had no idea.
The most recent major news was from the East Blue—reports that Captain Kuro, the infamous Black Cat Pirate, had been killed by none other than Axe-Hand Morgan.
Gale snorted at that.
Yeah, right.
Even with the little he remembered from the earlier plot of One Piece, he knew that was a load of crap. Kuro was very much alive and busy playing dead while plotting something in Syrup Village. But if the world thought he was dead, that meant the timeline was still on track.
No weird butterfly effects from his existence—yet.
He tossed the cloth into the bucket of water near the bed and leaned back with a sigh, staring up at the wooden ceiling.
The other half of his day had been spent pestering the first mate about everything related to ships.
How they were structured, how they were operated, how they were maintained—all of it.
The first mate had tolerated Gale's endless barrage of questions with a level of patience that was either admirable or alarming. Though, by the end of it, Gale was pretty sure the guy was this close to throwing him overboard.
But he didn't care.
Ships were the only viable method of long-distance travel in this world. There were no planes, no cars—just boats. If he was going to travel and see the world, he'd be spending a lot of time on ships. It only made sense to learn everything about them.
As for what Gale had learned about Centauria, well… it wasn't exactly exciting.
It was your typical One Piece country—ruled with an iron fist by a war-hungry warlord, where the ruling class thrived in luxury while the common folk lived like gutter rats, scraping by however they could. The kind of place where "justice" was just a word and "fairness" was a myth.
But what did make it slightly more interesting was how its social hierarchy worked.
Unlike the usual setup where some bloated aristocrat sat on a throne just because his great-great-great-grandfather once sneezed near a legendary figure, Centauria's government was based on strength. A militaristic aristocracy, where power dictated your status. The stronger you were, the higher your standing.
Honestly?
It wasn't the worst system he'd heard of.
At least here, if you wanted to climb the social ladder, you actually had to do something instead of just being lucky enough to be born into the right family. Still a caste system, still oppressive, but marginally better than some fat noble hoarding all the power because his ancestors accomplished the equivalent of getting a participation trophy a thousand years ago.
Not that Gale cared.
He wasn't about to get involved in the politics of some backwater war-state. But there was one thing about Centauria that had caught his interest.
The Colosseum.
Apparently, the place was a big deal. A massive arena where warriors clashed, reputations were made (or destroyed), and desperate criminals fought for their lives in the hopes of earning a second chance.
Some fighters were condemned men, thrown into the pit as a twisted form of justice. Others were ambitious warriors looking to make a name for themselves or rise through the ranks of Centaurian society.
And Gale?
Well, he was just someone who had been training for years without a real way to test himself.
Could be fun.
A chance to gauge his own strength against actual fighters instead of just Torino Island's wildlife and spear-wielding, pear-shaped people. And, if he was careful, he could even make some money while doing it.
Of course, there was one tiny issue.
Standing out.
The last thing he wanted was to accidentally make himself famous. If he was going to participate, he'd need to take precautions—hide his face, use a fake name, maybe even alter his fighting style to avoid being recognized later.
…Which really made him wish he'd gotten a Devil Fruit with some kind of disguise ability.
"Yeah, no, let me trade my cool density powers for the Hide-Hide Fruit. That'd be real useful in a fight."
He snorted at the thought, shaking his head.
Either way, that was a concern for future Gale.
Right now?
Right now, the only thing on his mind was the absolute aura of temptation radiating from the bed beneath him.
It was calling to him. Beckoning him. Whispering in the soft, seductive voice of a siren, "Come, lay down… you deserve this… surrender yourself to the abyss of sleep…"
His eyelids felt heavier just thinking about it.
And for once?
He didn't resist.
With a satisfied sigh, he flopped back onto the mattress, arms spread, and let the exhaustion drag him under.
...
Gale stood in front of the mirror, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the sleeves of his new coat. The fabric was stiff in some places, but not uncomfortably so—it just needed to be broken in. He gave himself a once-over, tilting his head to the side as he examined his reflection.
Grey pants, black boots, and a navy sailor's tailcoat. Beneath the coat, a black shirt with frilly white hems peeked out at the cuffs, and the same ruffled trim lined the collar. A red cloth belt was wrapped snugly around his waist, adding a touch of flair. Gale tugged on the belt once, ensuring it was secure.
"Not bad," he muttered, turning slightly to check himself from different angles. The outfit was stylish, sure, but more importantly, it was practical—loose enough to allow movement, but not so baggy that it would get caught on things.
The boots were sturdy, the pants comfortable, and the coat? Easily the best part. It was the kind of coat that screamed "effortless cool," draping over his shoulders just right when worn lazily.
It also doubled as proper protection against the cold if the need arose. Versatile, fashionable, and functional—a triple threat.
He took a step back, crossing his arms as he inspected himself one last time. He looked good. Maybe even a little too good, albeit a bit scrawny. If he wasn't careful, he'd start thinking of himself as some kind of dashing rogue instead of the clueless castaway he really was.
Still, there was something about wearing this that made him feel... more grounded. As if, for the first time since waking up in this world, he wasn't just some guy desperately trying to keep up with a reality that wasn't his. He looked like someone with a destination, a purpose, though he had none.
But of course, there was one reason he liked this outfit the most—it perfectly covered his tattoos.
His gaze dropped to his forearms, flexing his fingers slightly as he thought about the wave-like patterns hidden beneath the fabric. They were harmless enough most of the time, just strange black markings across his skin. But the moment he was submerged in seawater? They glowed.
Yeah, because that's normal.
Gale let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He still had no idea what they meant or where they came from. If he had to make an educated guess based on everything he knew about this world? He was probably either:
A) The result of some weird, underground scientific experiment that escaped into the wild, or—
B) The descendant of a mysterious, long-lost clan with some kind of ancient power or tragic backstory attached to it.
Neither option was particularly appealing.
This was One Piece, after all. There was no shortage of people running around with bloodlines that tied them to centuries-old conspiracies. Last thing he needed was to get wrapped up in some deep-seated generational drama just because his skin decided to act like a damn glowstick.
Until he figured things out, he'd keep his tattoos hidden. No sense in advertising potential trouble.
He tugged his sleeves down a little more, then took a deep breath. Alright. Enough overthinking. Time to head out and see what the day had in store.
He wasn't planning on missing another day of training, after all.
...
Jack was not a man easily surprised. He had spent years sailing across the South Blue, bartering with all sorts of people, from backwater islanders to high-society snobs. He'd seen bounty hunters, pirates, Marines, and mercenaries—each with their own brand of absurdity.
But watching Gale train?
That was something else entirely.
The boy had woken up at an hour so early that even the damn sun was still debating whether it was worth getting out of bed. And as soon as he had finished his breakfast—eating like a man who feared food might cease to exist at any moment—he went straight to training.
That in itself wasn't odd. Jack had met plenty of warriors with rigorous routines. Some of the stronger ones even did bizarre things, like breaking boulders with their heads or lifting absurdly heavy objects for fun.
What threw him off was the inconsistency.
One moment, Gale was balancing on his fingertips, effortlessly pushing his entire body weight up and down like it was nothing. Jack had seen people do handstand push-ups before, but never with just two fingers per hand. For an hour. Without breaking a sweat. If anything, the kid looked bored.
Jack was just about to file Gale away in the "Absurdly Strong Weirdo" category and move on with his day—until the boy did something that broke his brain.
Gale finished his fingertip push-ups, dusted off his hands, and casually walked over to one of the deckhands.
"Hey, can I borrow your mop?"
The deckhand blinked. "Uh… sure?"
Jack, observing from the quarterdeck, raised an eyebrow. Alright, what now?
To his absolute horror, Gale then proceeded to lift the mop up and down with both hands—like he was curling a massive weight.
And he was struggling.
The veins in his arms bulged, sweat dripped from his forehead, and his entire face contorted with intense concentration.
Jack squinted, certain that his aging merchant brain was malfunctioning. That's a mop. A normal, everyday mop. It weighed, what? A kilo at most?
"Guh—damn… this is… rough…" Gale muttered, still lifting the mop with visible difficulty.
Jack turned to his first mate. "Tell me I've finally lost it. Please."
The first mate, arms crossed, simply stared. "I—uh—I got nothing, Cap'n."
Jack looked back at Gale, half expecting this to be some kind of elaborate joke. Maybe the boy just wanted to mess with him?
But no—Gale was genuinely acting like the mop weighed a hundred kilos.
Jack rubbed his temples. Okay. Okay. Let's be rational about this. Maybe the kid was cursed. Maybe it was some strange Devil Fruit ability. Or maybe, and this was entirely possible, he was just insane.
And yet, the kid's expression didn't seem like he was pranking anyone. He looked like someone struggling to lift something ten times his weight.
Just as Jack was racking his brain, trying to piece together whatever madness he had just witnessed, he felt a chill run down his spine. It was that unsettling feeling—the kind you got when a predator was watching you.
His eyes flicked toward Gale.
The kid had noticed.
Gale turned slightly, his sharp grin widening as their eyes met. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Jack had spent years on the sea, and he knew that look. That was the look of someone about to cause trouble.
Before Jack could even open his mouth to protest, Gale shifted.
With an effortless motion, the young man adjusted his grip on the mop, suddenly holding it like a sword. And just like that, the struggle was gone.
The veins that had been bulging seconds ago? Gone.
The strained grunts? Gone.
The whole 'ridiculous act'? Gone.
And now, Gale was swinging the mop around with a single hand, as if it weighed nothing.
Jack's brain short-circuited.
Then came the whoosh.
The force of the swing alone sent a gust of wind so powerful that it blew the hat clean off Jack's head. The merchant captain barely had time to react before he heard a thud behind him—the sound of his hat landing several feet away.
Jack blinked. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
His jaw refused to stay attached to his skull.
"What. The. Hell."
Before he could even begin to process what had just happened, a sudden shout erupted from above.
"CAPTAIN! SEA BEAST, DEAD AHEAD!"
Jack snapped out of his stupor and spun around, his confusion shoved aside by immediate concern. His sharp gaze followed the panicked sailor's outstretched hand—straight toward the ocean.
And sure enough, rising from the sea like some nightmarish oceanic demon, was a Goat-Looking Sea Beast.
The creature's massive, horned head broke through the waves, its eerie rectangular pupils locking onto the ship with a hungry gleam.
Jack didn't waste a second. His voice boomed across the deck.
"PREPARE THE CANNONS! MAN THE HARPOONS!"
The crew scrambled into action.
Barrels were overturned, ropes were thrown, and cannons were hurriedly positioned as every sailor onboard moved with the kind of urgency that came from knowing exactly what was at stake.
And then Gale spoke.
"There's no need for that," he said, casually stretching his arms.
Jack whipped around.
"What the hell are you talking about—"
"I'll take care of it for you," Gale cut in. His grin was far too relaxed for someone staring down a giant sea monster.
Jack stared at him. Then at the Goat Sea Beast. Then back at him.
"... Free of charge," Gale added, as if that was supposed to make this situation any less ridiculous.
Jack rubbed his temples. "Lad, this is not the time for—"
But Gale wasn't listening.
He rolled his shoulders. Then, with the confidence of a man who had already decided how this was going to go, he lifted the mop above his head—like a javelin.
Jack suddenly felt very, very tired.
"This idiot is about to throw a mop at a Sea Beast," he realized.
The crew, equally baffled, had paused their work just to watch.
Gale's grin faded, replaced by something focused. His muscles tensed, their density increasing to the absolute limit. The mop itself grew heavier and heavier in his grip—its weight multiplying until it was no longer just a simple cleaning tool, but a lethal projectile.
Then, in a blur of motion, Gale sprinted forward.
His feet pounded against the wooden deck.
And then—he threw.
The mop shot forward like a cannonball.
The sheer force of the throw was so immense that the ocean itself split apart in its wake, the water parting violently as the mop tore through the air at breakneck speed.
CRACK!
The mop pierced straight through the Goat Sea Beast's skull.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, the creature's lifeless body collapsed with a massive splash, sending towering waves rippling outward.
Jack didn't move.
Neither did the crew.
Hell, Jack was pretty sure even the damn seagulls had paused mid-flight, seemingly appalled by the situation.
Gale stretched his arms lazily, glancing down at the sea beast's floating corpse.
"Not bad," he mused. Then, tilting his head, he added, "Guess we're having mutton for lunch."
A pause.
"… Or is it technically fish?"
...
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