Gale sat slouched in his stone seat, his face halfway melted off by boredom and the unrelenting Marcellum sun. The crowd around him cheered, hollered, and waved flags with infectious enthusiasm—completely oblivious to the fact that the last two hours had been a parade of meh.
Another fighter was just getting scraped off the arena floor by a crew of tired-looking attendants with brooms and stretchers. The guy before him had slipped on his own sweat, landed on his face, and been knocked out by a guy wielding what appeared to be a very large spoon.
Yes. A spoon.
Gale let out a long, soul-drained exhale. "This is the height of entertainment here?" he muttered, picking at the edge of his wooden seat. "I've seen pigeons fight over breadcrumbs with more technique."
Back in his old life, this would've been thrilling. Bloodsport, loud crowds, weapons clashing—he would've been all in. But after surviving years on Torino Island, where even the squirrels knew martial arts and the birds dive-bombed like trained assassins, this was just sad.
Nobody here was dangerous. Nobody was clever. Nobody even roared properly. One guy roared and sounded like he stubbed his toe on a chair leg.
He yawned so wide his jaw popped. "Alright, that's enough. Time to find a bakery or something."
Just as he was about to get up and reclaim his afternoon from the hands of mediocrity, the commentator's magically amplified voice blared through the stadium.
"—AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FOR A FIGHT UNLIKE ANY OTHER!"
The crowd roared to life, apparently familiar with the name that followed. Gale froze mid-stand. The guy beside him actually started vibrating.
"THE MAN WHO DEFEATED ALL MEN, AND FOUND NO CHALLENGE LEFT IN HUMANITY… HE TURNED TO BEASTS IN HIS QUEST FOR A WORTHY FOE!"
Gale raised an eyebrow and sank back into his seat, mildly intrigued.
"OH, COME ON," he muttered. "That sounds like a villain backstory."
From the far gate of the arena, the next fighter emerged with slow, deliberate steps. He wore a sleek black kimono with red trim, the fabric rippling like smoke in the breeze. His posture was relaxed yet alert. At his side hung a katana, its sheath scuffed and worn, like it had seen a hundred duels and only lost patience.
His hair was tied back in a loose topknot. His face was unreadable—stern, poised, and somewhere between 'wandering master' and 'man who only speaks in haiku'.
Gale leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
'Now we're talking...'
He studied the man closely. That effortless grace. That icy composure. That katana. It all screamed samurai aesthetic, and not the kind of cosplay you find in a festival either.
"Wano?" Gale murmured. "Maybe a runaway? Or an exile?"
His brain started whirring. A swordsman from Wano would be a big deal. They were legends even in the Grand Line. If this guy really was from there, maybe Gale could learn something—or at least not fall asleep mid-fight.
The commentator barely had time to hype up the opponent—"A SAVAGE KING OF THE SOUTHERN JUNGLES, FEARED FOR HIS FANGS, CLAWS, AND HATE FOR LOUD NOISES"—before a massive gate creaked open and a lion the size of a small house bounded into the arena, snarling and snapping at the air.
The samurai didn't flinch. He just stared at the beast with the kind of calm you usually associate with a monk who's already accepted death—or forgotten what he came here to do.
The crowd held their breath.
The lion roared.
The samurai took one step forward.
Gale squinted.
'This is it. This is gonna be good.'
And then—
CHOMP.
The lion pounced, landed directly on the samurai, and proceeded to flail him like a chew toy. A single scream was cut short. The man's katana never even left its sheath.
By the time the dust settled, the "master swordsman" was buried under a small crater and what appeared to be the remains of his robe fluttering in the wind like a defeated curtain.
Silence.
Then wild, unhinged cheering from the bloodthirsty crowd.
Gale blinked slowly.
"…Wow."
He rubbed his eyes. "Did that man just die like a Saturday morning cartoon character?"
He leaned back in his seat, stunned. Not by the death but by the whiplash of expectation versus reality. It was like watching a master chef announce a gourmet meal, only to serve instant noodles with no seasoning.
'Wano exile? Please. That man probably got his sword at a discount festival booth.'
Still, Gale was a little impressed by the lion.
"…You know what?" he mumbled. "I'd pay to see that lion fight the guy with the spoon."
Gale sighed for what felt like the nineteenth time that day and began the process of hauling himself out of his seat again, dusting imaginary sand off his pants and preparing to write a scathing one-star review in his head.
"Giant lion eats kimono guy in five seconds. Popcorn was stale. Crowd too enthusiastic. 1/5 stars."
"And just when you thought the bloodshed was over—HO HO NO! THE KING OF THE SOUTHERN JUNGLES MAY HAVE CLAIMED HIS VICTIM, BUT HIS NEXT OPPONENT IS SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY!"
Gale paused mid-step.
'...Don't do this. Don't give me hope.'
"A MAN WHO ONCE HELD HONOR, WHO WAS A HERO TO HIS PEOPLE—BEFORE HE TURNED HIS BACK ON HIS COUNTRY! HE BETRAYED HIS COMRADES, TURNED THE CANNONS ON HIS OWN HOMELAND, AND DISAPPEARED INTO INFAMY! YEARS LATER, HE RETURNED TO LEAD A FAILED REBELLION AGAINST THE VERY KINGDOM HE ONCE SWORE TO PROTECT—AND NOW, HE BELONGS TO US."
The crowd gasped, some jeering, others roaring in anticipation.
"ONCE KNOWN AS RIGEL THE RED-HANDED, THE TRAITOR GENERAL, THE STORM OF THE COASTS, THE SCOURGE OF CENTAUREA—HE IS A BEAST WHO CANNOT BE TAMED!"
Gale's foot hovered mid-air before slowly retracting back onto the step.
He sat down again.
"If this guy turns out to be just another sweaty musclehead with a cool nickname, I swear I'm throwing hands," he muttered.
The opposite gate groaned open.
Out stepped a man in heavy chains, his movements slow, almost bored. He was tall, broad-shouldered, sun-scarred, and looked like someone had tried to bury him and forgot to check if he was dead first.
His dark, curly hair was tangled but not unkempt, and his face bore a crooked nose, an old scar across his jaw, and a gaze like a thunderstorm was perpetually happening behind his eyes.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He didn't acknowledge the crowd or the lion now pacing impatiently across the sand.
Two handlers flanked him, fiddling with keys and bolts, unfastening the chains like they were defusing a bomb. Rigel didn't move, didn't flinch. He just watched the lion.
The lion watched him back, its tail swishing low, like it knew this wasn't going to be another snack break.
The handlers finished and bolted without ceremony, vanishing back into the tunnels like shadows fleeing the light.
The silence in the colosseum stretched thin.
Then the lion charged.
Rigel didn't flinch.
Gale leaned forward. "Okay, Rigel. Impress me."
The lion lunged—a blur of golden muscle and murder.
Rigel stepped aside. Just a step. Effortless, casual, like he'd just avoided a low-hanging laundry line.
The crowd gasped.
Before the lion could turn, Rigel's hand shot out—snagging its tail mid-movement—and with a grunt like he was mildly annoyed, he swung.
The lion soared.
Not pounced. Not leaped. Soared. A hundred pounds of claw and ego arced across the arena like a furry comet and slammed into the stone wall with a crack that silenced the entire stadium.
The lion slumped to the sand, unconscious. Or dead. Possibly reconsidering all its life choices.
A single thud echoed as a popcorn bucket dropped from someone's frozen hand.
Gale let out a low whistle. "Okay. Caveman's got moves."
Rigel stood in the center of the arena, unfazed. Barely breathing. His gaze wandered over the crowd with complete disinterest, like they were flies buzzing around a broken light.
Two handlers appeared again, moving with the reverence of men tiptoeing around a sleeping volcano. They shackled him without incident. Rigel didn't resist. He moved with the same quiet compliance as before, like it was all part of a dance he'd done a thousand times.
As he was led away, the crowd roared with approval—savage and thunderous.
Gale sat back, arms crossed, a grin teasing his face. "Now that was worth the ticket."
But as Rigel disappeared through the gate, that grin faded into something more thoughtful.
'That guy… he wasn't fighting for glory. That wasn't showmanship. He's just doing a chore...'
And then something else occurred to him.
"How the hell did they catch a guy like that?"
He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. "Maybe I've been underestimating this country…"
A pause.
"…Still gonna punch that commentator, though. Two hours of my life I'll never get back."
...
The underground corridors of the Colosseum were a far cry from the grandeur above. No cheering crowds. No sunlight. Just damp stone, flickering torchlight, and the sound of distant chains rattling with rhythmic monotony.
The commentator—still in his flamboyant red-and-gold coat but noticeably quieter here—moved with careful steps through a less-traveled passage behind the storage cells.
His usual grin was absent. This wasn't showtime. Not here.
He paused at the end of a narrow corridor, where a figure leaned against the wall in the shadows. Short—barely coming up to the commentator's chest—with a tall top hat that made up for most of his height.
His coat was lined with metal trimmings, and thick gloves covered his hands. Even in the gloom, the faint clink of small mechanical parts could be heard from his belt, twitching and hissing softly with barely-contained energy.
The commentator cleared his throat.
"They've gone home," he said, voice low. "We've got a few hours before the staff start swapping out for the evening shift."
The veiled figure nodded but didn't step into the light. His voice, however, was unmistakable—light and analytical, with a playfulness that never quite masked the sharp mind behind it.
"Preparations. How are they coming?"
The commentator sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he'd been doing it too often lately. "Much of the same. Rigel's still the only one we've got who the people might rally behind. Most of the rebels still treat him like a ghost story. Some hate him. Some worship him. But if they think he's on the move again…"
The veiled figure gave a low hum of consideration. "The fire needs a spark."
"More like dynamite," the commentator muttered. "Centaurea's people have been dulled for years. Constant parades, enforced peace, sugar-coated chains. Half the kingdom doesn't even know they're oppressed."
The figure tilted his head. "And the king?"
The commentator grimaced. "Still holding the reigns of power. Still cruel. Still playing god from that velvet throne of his. King Rothvalis doesn't even hide it anymore..."
The veiled figure made a small mechanical whirring noise. It could've been a chuckle. Hard to tell with him.
There was a pause.
"Any way to reach Rigel yet?"
"Not unless you want to get caught doing it." The commentator crossed his arms. "They've got him locked down tighter than the kingdom vault. Always flanked by handlers. No time alone. No privacy. No mail. The only window we've got is if something—or someone—puts him in the clinic."
The veiled figure's ears twitched—wait, no, maybe that was the top hat shifting.
He straightened. "A match injury?"
"Exactly." The commentator nodded. "In the infirmary, they won't keep guards inside the room. Too small. Too clean. The nurse is sympathetic to our cause. If Rigel winds up there…"
The figure rubbed his chin through one of his gloves, the metal on his wrist clinking faintly. "Then maybe I should sign up for a round or two. I've got some new prototypes I've been itching to field test. A couple of solid blasts should be enough to drop him. Two birds. One stone."
The commentator's eyes bulged. "Absolutely not. Are you out of your mind?"
"You're known, all right?" the commentator hissed, stepping closer. "You show up in that arena, with your gadgets and that face of yours, they'll know who you are faster than you can pull a trigger. We can't risk exposure. Not now."
The veiled figure leaned back again, thoughtful but clearly disappointed. "I could wear a mustache."
"You have a mustache, err whiskers...?."
"A second one."
"Wouldn't help."
The veiled figure clicked his tongue, tapping the side of his head with one gloved finger—tink tink tink—like he was calibrating a thought.
"Well," he said, tone almost lazy, "I'll wait. Maybe someone'll give Rigel a good knock in the face soon. You know, for therapeutic reasons."
He grinned. Sharp. Playful. A little too eager for someone casually talking about face-punching freedom fighters.
"And if not," he went on, adjusting the brim of his top hat, "maybe that blonde kid from the East Blue could do it. The one our boss took in. Kid's got potential. Scrappy. Fire in his eyes. Doesn't know how to shut up."
The commentator arched an eyebrow. "Oh, him?"
"Mmhmm. No one knows him yet. Real clean slate. Could slip into the island, clock Rigel in the jaw, then ghost out before anyone even knows what happened."
He paused, then gave a wistful shrug.
"Though… we'd have to wait. He's still training, last I heard. Stuck halfway up a waterfall, fighting monkeys or ghosts or something. Could be a year or two before he's ready."
The commentator scoffed. "We might not need to wait that long."
The figure's head tilted sharply, ears—or hat flaps, who could say—twitching. "Oh? And what exactly does that mean?"
The commentator stepped forward, voice dropping into something lower. Not a whisper, but close.
"There's a new arrival on the island. Just got here two days ago. Young. Human. Real wildcard."
The figure made a soft clicking sound in his throat, intrigued. "Another contestant?"
"Not officially. But he's hanging around. Watching the fights. Eating too much. Asking a lot of weird questions. Looks like the curious type."
"Hmm." The figure scratched behind his ear. "Where's he from?"
"South Blue. Or close enough. One of our agents works the route on a merchant ship—the Jackdaw. They picked him up off the fringes, just west of Torino Island."
The veiled figure went still. Even the little mechanical doodads on his belt seemed to freeze, hissing quiet for once.
"And?" he asked, eyes glinting beneath the brim of the hat. "What did the agent say about him?"
The commentator smiled faintly.
"Said the kid's name is Harlow Gale. Said he's strong. Stupid strong. Says he's got weird Devil Fruit powers."
"Weird?" The figure leaned in, grin growing. "How weird?"
"Well," the commentator began, folding his arms, "according to our man, they first spotted the kid while sailing past Torino. Barely noticed him at first. Just a speck on the waves. And then that speck stood up. Said he was just casually running on the water, waving at the ship like he wanted to borrow a cup of sugar."
The veiled figure gave a slow, delighted laugh. "He ran on water?"
"Yep."
"Like... just ran?"
"Like 'hey, mind if I hop aboard?' and then just ran up the hull."
The figure's grin widened, curling just a little more to the left than the right. It was the kind of smile that suggested he kept dangerous secrets in his back pocket next to a few half-finished gadgets and a granola bar.
"That's my kind of strange," he muttered, tapping his hat back into place. "But if his Devil Fruit lets him run on water, I'm not sure that'll help him much against Rigel."
The commentator gave an airy wave of his hand, like he was swatting a mosquito made of dumb assumptions.
"Oh please. You think I'd be this interested if that was all?"
The veiled figure arched an eyebrow. The metal components in his coat hissed quietly, as if leaning in too.
The commentator's smile turned sly.
"Our agent says he watched this Gale fellow take out a sea beast."
That got the figure's attention. "Sea beast?"
"With a mop."
"…A mop."
"A mop," the commentator confirmed, crossing his arms.
There was a long pause. Somewhere in the background, a cricket chirped—then realized it was on the wrong island and shut up.
The figure's eyebrow rose even higher, almost eclipsing his hat brim. "Like… a cleaning mop?"
"Apparently, he hurled it like a javelin and punched straight through its head," the commentator said, with the tone of someone who still hadn't processed it himself. "Agent said it looked like he was just annoyed the beast was interrupting his training session."
The figure blinked, then broke into a laugh—light and sharp and metallic around the edges, like someone had wired a chuckle into a clockwork mechanism. "That definitely sounds like the kind of guy we're looking for."
He leaned back on his heels, mechanical joints giving a soft click, arms tucked behind his back. "So… is he interested in the fights?"
The commentator shrugged. "According to our agent? Seemed interested. He's been loitering near the Colosseum, watching matches, asking questions. Probably just biding his time."
"And if he doesn't?" the veiled figure asked.
The commentator chuckled. "Then we give him a little nudge."
He leaned forward, fingers tapping the edge of the table like he was drumming up an idea.
"The kid's not subtle. He likes good food and booze. He likes money. And judging from how he tried to haggle with a bartender over the price of boiled eggs, I'd say he needs it."
He snapped his fingers.
"All we have to do is pull some strings, get the arena to put a massive bounty on Rigel's head. Not literal, of course—just a prize for beating him in the ring. Something flashy. The bosses will go for it; they're arrogant enough to think no one can touch Rigel anyway."
The veiled figure gave a low hum, amused. "So… we lure the mop-slinger into the Colosseum with the promise of cash, and if he manages to knock Rigel around, we get our shot to reach him."
"Two birds," the commentator said.
"One stone," the veiled figure replied.
...
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