The sun beat down on Centaurea's main square like it had a grudge. The kind of dry, relentless heat that made clothes stick and tempers short. But none of that mattered to Harlow Gale, who had far more important things on his mind—namely, dumplings.
"No, no, no," he said, waving a single finger at the stall vendor like he was conducting a symphony of frugality. "Five hundred beri. Not one more."
The vendor looked like he'd rather deep-fry Gale than the dumplings. "That's barely cost, you lunatic! These are pork-filled. You know how much pork costs in Centaurea?"
Gale crossed his arms. "I don't. But if you throw in that sad-looking pickle skewer, I'll pretend to be impressed."
They stared each other down. Somewhere in the background, a baby started crying—possibly sensing the tension. Or possibly because Centaurea was just hot, crowded, and full of very loud merchants.
"Fine!" the vendor snapped, shoving a paper plate at him. "You win. But if you come back tomorrow, the price doubles."
Gale grinned like a man who just bested a sea king. "If I come back tomorrow, I'll bring my own condiments."
He strolled away with his prize and flopped down in a shaded corner between a tailor's shop and a barrel that smelled suspiciously like old fish and regrets. The dumplings were piping hot and heavenly—crispy at the bottom, soft on top, with that greasy, just-barely-questionable flavor that screamed street food.
As he chewed, Gale tilted his head toward the plaza and sighed.
What now?
The past two days had been an endless loop of training, loitering around the Colosseum, and pestering vendors. He'd scoped out the arena from every angle short of breaking in. Not that he hadn't considered it—he just didn't feel like getting impaled by security for the sake of curiosity.
And Rigel? Nowhere to be seen.
Apparently, the arena bigwigs were treating him like a delicate fruit, giving him time to rest and ripen for some "big event." Whatever that meant.
Gale had tried asking around, but most of the responses ranged from vague rumors to wildly incorrect facts like:
"Rigel's off fighting sea gods in the Grand Line."
"He's actually three raccoons in a coat."
"He turns into a dragon when the moon's full."
(That last one had come from a very drunk man who later fell asleep face-first in a bucket.)
Point is, nothing useful. And boredom? Oh, boredom had settled in.
Centaurea, for all its noise and flash, was actually a pretty dull place once the surface glitter wore off.
You had beggars who looked like they'd been asking for change since the Void Century, and nobles who dressed like walking circus accidents—giant hats, feathers, monocles on chains, even a guy with a diamond-studded parrot.
The whole city felt like it was trying a little too hard to be important.
Gale stuffed another dumpling in his mouth and leaned back against the wall, wondering if it was time to skip town. He could catch the next merchant ship and move on.
Maybe find another place with more action. More chances to test his powers. And fewer nobles shouting about "imported snailskin shoes."
Then he heard it—clang, clang, clang.
He turned his head and spotted a man at the far corner of the square, hammering something onto a wooden board. A fresh poster flapped in the breeze, catching the light just right.
Curious, Gale crammed the last dumpling into his mouth (two bites at once, chef's kiss) and jogged over, brushing crumbs off his shirt. The man had just stepped back, smoothing the paper with his palm.
It was a wanted poster.
But not for a pirate.
It was Rigel's face—bold and scowling, his arms crossed, tattoos like jagged lightning bolts creeping out from under his coat. And beneath that?
10,000,000 Beri.
Gale almost choked on his food. He pointed at the poster with wide eyes, trying to swallow and speak at the same time.
"Wmmf—did he escape?!" he coughed. "The hell's going on?! Did Rigel break out?!"
The man chuckled and shook his head. "Nah, you must not've heard the news. He's still locked in tight at the Colosseum."
Gale blinked. "Then… why the wanted poster?"
The man stepped back, admiring his handiwork like he'd just nailed the Mona Lisa to a sandwich board. "It's for the upcoming event. Big promotional thing. Fighters can register at the arena. If anyone beats Rigel, they walk away with that ten mil."
Gale stared at him, then at the poster again, then back at him.
"…So I sign up, fight this guy, and if I win, I get ten million?"
"That's the idea."
Gale raised an eyebrow, squinting at the poster like it had personally offended him. Ten million beri? That was the bounty for beating Rigel?
"Hardly fair," he muttered under his breath.
He leaned in a little, arms crossed, dumpling grease still glistening on his fingertips. The more he stared at Rigel's face, the more confused he felt.
Ten million was no small sum, sure—but for someone like him?
There are probably people out there with higher bounties for kicking over a noble's garden gnome.
Even Malko had a 15 million tag on his head—and that guy couldn't take a slap. Gale knew. He had slapped him. One good whack and Malko went down like a sack of moldy potatoes. And now he had the gall to be worth more than Rigel?
But Rigel? He wasn't some loudmouth pirate with an oversized coat and a handmade flag. Rigel looked like the kind of guy who got into a fistfight with a cannonball and won. The kind of guy who didn't need a bounty to be dangerous—his reputation did all the heavy lifting.
Granted, Gale hadn't seen him in action, but the guy looked like he could take ten slaps at minimum. Maybe twelve on a good day.
Still, Gale reminded himself, that's not how bounties worked. It wasn't about power—it was about threat. And someone like Malko, slippery as an eel with a map and a vendetta, was a nightmare for the Marines to catch. The kind who'd always be ducking patrols, bribing island officials, faking his own death for fun and profit.
Rigel, meanwhile, was sitting pretty in a cage, served up with a side of fanfare and light seasoning. A glorified showpiece. Just waiting for someone stupid—or gutsy—enough to take a swing.
'That's supply and demand for you,' Gale thought, tapping his chin. 'No one's paying a premium for something that's already gift-wrapped.'
But none of that really mattered.
Not the bounty. Not the math. Not the logistics of underground betting markets or the fact that Rigel was probably sleeping on a much better bed than Gale had in the past week.
What did matter was the number.
Ten million.
That was more dumplings than Gale could count.
(Okay, he could count them, but it would take time and possibly an abacus. Or a snack break.)
More importantly—it was something to do.
Gale's mouth curved into a grin, that lazy, half-cocked smirk that usually came right before things got interesting. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head toward the poster like he was sizing it up for a fight.
"Alright, Rigel…" he muttered, voice low and amused. "Let's see what you can really do."
A breeze swept through the square just then, fluttering the edge of the poster. Rigel's drawn eyes seemed to stare right back at him.
Challenge Accepted...
Or… that's what Gale wanted to say. Really. It was right there on the tip of his tongue—would've sounded very cool too. Maybe even worthy of a dramatic gust of wind and some music sting in the background.
But instead of saying it, he stood in the middle of the street awkwardly chewing on the inside of his cheek as a far less exciting thought crept in.
'Wait... if I enter this thing and win, I'm gonna stand out.'
Like, really stand out.
The kind of stand-out that gets people whispering. Then staring. Then asking questions. The kind of attention that leads to bounty posters of your face, followed by Marines knocking on your door—or worse, bounty hunters with bad hygiene and something to prove.
That wasn't part of the plan.
Or… well, Gale didn't exactly have a plan. He was still figuring that part out. His current life plan mostly involved wandering aimlessly, sampling local cuisine, and occasionally punching people who deserved it. It was peaceful. Low-key. Dramatic only when he wanted it to be.
Getting involved in some flashy arena brawl with a walking mountain like Rigel? That felt dangerously close to commitment.
He scratched the back of his head and frowned, weighing his options like someone trying to decide if extra cheese on a pizza was worth the stomachache later.
On one hand: participate in the fights, risk blowing his cover, and possibly attract the wrong kind of attention.
On the other: ten million beri.
On one hand: continue flying under the radar, keep things simple, stay out of trouble.
On the other: ten. million. Beri.
"Ugh," Gale groaned to himself, his brain now a tug-of-war match between his inner slacker and his inner capitalist. Ten million could buy a lot of dumplings. Or a boat. Or a small island shaped like a dumpling.
His eyes glazed over for a second as he briefly imagined Dumpling Island™, complete with spicy broth hot springs and soy sauce waterfalls.
Focus, he scolded himself.
And just as he was about to start mentally listing pros and cons again, something caught his eye. His gaze drifted lazily across the street—and then stopped, dead center, on a nearby market stall.
Specifically, on the half-face red dragon mask displayed on a little wooden stand.
A slow grin stretched across his face. It was elegant, bold, and just the right mix of mysterious and ridiculous.
'If I don't want to stand out… I just need to cover my face.'
He could almost hear the dramatic music cue again.
Gale let out a low, slightly theatrical chuckle. "Heh… heheheh…"
It was the kind of laugh you'd hear from a guy about to do something mildly unhinged but definitely entertaining. Somewhere between evil genius and local idiot with too much time on his hands.
With renewed purpose—and a dangerous glint in his eye—Gale strode toward the stall like a man possessed, rubbing his hands like some cartoonish villain. Dumpling money be damned. He was going to invest in style.
Meanwhile, the poor man who had been hanging up the poster earlier paused, hammer still in hand, and watched Gale walk off, muttering and chuckling to himself.
The man's expression slowly shifted from mild curiosity to deep, aching concern. He scratched his chin and leaned over to a passing vendor.
"…Is that guy okay?" he whispered.
The vendor shrugged. "Tourists."
...
The Colosseum gates loomed tall and proud, their stonework chiseled with the kind of grandiosity that screamed "You're either gonna make history or get flattened." Gale adjusted the red dragon mask on his face and tugged the collar of his new black outfit higher around his neck.
He wasn't going for anything too flashy—just something dramatic enough to say "I'm mysterious and possibly dangerous, please underestimate me at your own risk."
Unfortunately, judging by the whispering going on around him, he had achieved more "what's this weirdo's deal?" than "enigmatic warrior."
"He's got a mask. Is that a dragon? What's he hiding, a face full of warts?"
"Looks more like one of those street performers from the festival."
"Bet he's one of those try-hard first-timers who gets sent flying in the first round."
Gale's eye twitched under the mask. He resisted the urge to turn around and say something snarky. Let 'em talk. Given his scrawny frame, it was only natural to be underestimated—and honestly, that was half the fun.
Still, if one more person compared him to a clown, he just might give them a slab across the face.
He reached the front of the registration line, where a tired-looking clerk sat behind a thick desk, surrounded by stacks of paper and an energy that screamed "I gave up caring three hours ago."
The man glanced up at Gale and blinked at the mask, his pen pausing mid-scroll.
"Name and affiliation?" the clerk asked flatly.
Gale opened his mouth—and immediately froze.
'Oh crap. Name. Alias. Right. Should've planned that…'
For a split second, his brain offered nothing but static. Just pure, dumb static. He considered saying his real name, panicked, and ended up blurting the first thing that popped into his head.
"Uh… Bayle. From… Jagged Peak."
Nailed it.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Jagged Peak?"
Gale nodded too quickly. "Yep. Very jagged. Very… peaky."
"That's not anywhere I've heard of," the clerk muttered, squinting like he was trying to mentally search every map he'd ever seen. "What's with the mask?"
Gale straightened a little, trying to sound way more confident than he felt. "I'm from very far away. This is for dramatic effect. You know—showmanship. Gotta sell the mystery."
The clerk let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that probably escaped his soul at least twenty times a day. "Look, there's no law against hiding your identity in the ring. We get a lotta wannabe vigilantes and 'masked champions' this time of year. But if it turns out you're a criminal or a fugitive, and we find out you're trying to weasel your way into the spotlight…"
He tapped a poster on the side of the desk that read "NO CRIMINALS, PIRATES, OR TAX EVADERS" in bold letters. "You get disqualified. And turned over to the authorities. Capisce?"
Gale gave a casual shrug. "That's fine."
Internally, he was sweating bullets.
'Note to self: never forget to come up with a fake name again. Also maybe pick a fake hometown that sounds less like an off-brand hiking trail.'
The clerk finally scribbled something down and slid a stamped slip across the desk. "Alright, Bayle from Jagged Peak," he said, voice dripping with skepticism. "Follow the path behind me. Someone'll explain the event rules and give you the finer details."
"Much appreciated," Gale replied, giving a little mock bow just to stay in character.
As he turned and made his way down the path, he couldn't help but grin under the mask. He was in. Ten million beri was practically within reach. Rigel was going to get a surprise visit from a very dramatic dragon-faced weirdo—and Gale was going to make sure it was a performance no one would forget.
Even if they never remembered his name correctly.
"Bayle from Jagged Peak," he muttered to himself with a snort. "Sounds like a traveling poet with a serious case of arthritis…"
...
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