It was like a dam had burst.
Not just a crack. Not just a leak.
A total collapse—the kind that sweeps villages away and leaves only stunned silence in its wake. That was what it felt like when Gale finally stopped thinking and just felt.
The strange itch in the back of his mind, the quiet suggestion his Devil Fruit had been whispering to him since arriving in Vashiri—it all clicked, all at once, like a chaotic symphony suddenly hitting perfect harmony.
It didn't last long.
Maybe a few seconds, if that. But it was enough.
The result? Countless rose petals twisting through the air like they'd been waiting for the cue to dance. A flurry of sharp, elegant violence. His grin only widened as he watched his elongated rapier—now nearly the length of a fishing mast—swing down with a crash loud enough to make the fog itself flinch.
The pressure alone sent half a dozen of Blight's subordinates flying like unruly laundry caught in a storm.
The fog, that ever-creeping blanket of dread, didn't so much disperse as it fled, peeling open in a dramatic, swirling arc as the blade hit the ground with a thunderous boom that sent tremors through the earth.
A small crater formed where the edge touched down.
And the ground? Yeah—it split. Like someone had taken a hot knife through marble.
For a second, Gale just stood there, sword still humming with pressure, petals still lazily spiraling through the air. If it weren't for the mild ringing in his ears and the smell of ozone and disturbed soil, he might've believed the whole thing was a dream.
Then a stray thought broke through the awe:
'Kiwanu would absolutely blow a fuse if he saw this.'
That weird little scientist back on Torino had already acted like Gale's density powers were the greatest discovery since portable booze flasks. The guy nearly lost his mind the first time Gale turned a cannonball into a bouncy ball.
If he knew Gale could now mess with size too?
Forget fuses—Kiwanu might explode from sheer excitement.
"Better keep this a secret," Gale muttered, a wry smirk forming. "Last thing I need is that crazy man sailing halfway around the world to dissect me in my sleep..."
But the thought didn't linger. The fog, which had once parted so dramatically, was already starting to stitch itself back together like it had taken the insult personally.
'Of course it does,' Gale thought, squinting at the curling edges. 'God forbid I get to enjoy a dramatic moment for more than five seconds.'
Shaking off the stray thoughts, he began scanning his surroundings. The battlefield was a mess of cratered earth, snapped weapons, scattered unconscious bodies—and petals. So many petals.
And then—
"Ah. There he is."
Poqin.
Sitting on a rock like a tourist who wandered into the end of the world with a bottle of booze and a front-row seat. The monk raised his drink and gave Gale a lazy thumbs up, like this was a casual spar and not the prelude to a potential national tragedy.
Gale sighed and returned the gesture with a nod. 'Typical Poqin. He probably got lost in the fog and decided to sit still, waiting for something to happen...'
He resumed scanning. The ex-Marines were either unconscious or buried. However, some of them, injured as they were, seemed just as eager to hack him to pieces.
Then he saw it.
Just for a second.
A tall, lean figure standing on a hill beyond the mended edge of the fog. The silhouette was too defined to be a ghost of mist, too still to be a hallucination.
A long coat.
A hand resting casually on a sheathed sword.
"Blight."
There was no mistaking it. No one else could stand in a battlefield this chaotic, in a fog this cursed, with that much composure.
Another wall of fog came slithering back across the crater like it was embarrassed it had ever parted.
Gale had only taken a single step toward the distant silhouette when one of Blight's ex‑Marines exploded out of the white, sword overhead and a battle‑cry halfway between "die" and "I skipped breakfast."
Gale cocked a fist, ready to introduce the man to the concept of accelerated flight—
—and Poqin materialised first.
"'Scuse me."
The monk caught the attacker by the face, pivoted, and drove the poor soul straight into the churned‑up turf. It sounded like someone dropping a melon on tile.
Poqin wiped imaginary dust from his robes, grinning. "Go be a hero. I'll babysit the small fry."
Gale snorted. "Right. I tango with the ex‑Vice Admiral stress‑monster while you pad your stat sheet. Real generous, oh venerable Master of Zen."
Poqin's grin only widened. He lifted one hand, palm up, wiggling his fingers. "Go get 'em, tiger."
Gale rolled his eyes—because of course the monk wants a high‑five right now—but slapped Poqin's palm all the same. A crisp smack echoed through the mist.
Aloud he muttered, "Try not to drink all their rum before I'm back."
"No promises!"
Gale shook his head, density lightening just enough for another flicker‑step.
In the next instant he vanished into the fog, zeroing in on that lone figure on the hill—the calm eye in Blight's manufactured storm.
Showtime.
...
Gale's boots crunched onto the hilltop, the packed earth fracturing under his weight. A heartbeat later the surrounding fog recoiled, swirling outward to form a neat, eerie clearing—like a theatre curtain drawing back for the main act.
Out of that living mist stepped Blight.
"Stepped" might've been generous. The fog around him was so thick it was hard to tell where coat ended and vapour began. It sculpted itself into the silhouette of a tall pirate in a battered longcoat and tattered bicorn hat, beard braided into coils of grey.
Two emerald glows burned where eyes should have been, and every footfall plumed like smoke seeping from cracks in the earth.
'Great,' Gale thought, 'he's got his own special‑effects budget.'
Blight's voice rolled out, calm and strangely warm—like a bedtime story told by a crocodile.
"Ah, there he is… the young Marine. A hero come to vanquish the villain."
Gale gave a weary scoff. "You say that like there's any other way to read this scene. I'm no hero, by the way—more a reluctant, moderately motivated employee with questionable overtime pay."
Blight chuckled. The fog around his shoulders rippled, tangible as cloth. Gale eyed it warily; he still remembered how those "harmless" wisps had tried to snap his arm earlier.
"There are as many ways to interpret a moment," Blight said, gesturing grandly, "as there are grains of sand in the world. All a matter of perspective."
"Uh‑huh." Gale rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So the guy out to blow up a kingdom thinks he's enlightened. Classic."
Blight tilted his head, the green glow of his eyes narrowing fondly—as if scrutinising a promising recruit. "You remind me of myself in younger days. Minus the snark." He paused. "Step aside. Do that, and I guarantee your safety—along with that of the marines under your command."
Gale raised an eyebrow. "And the tens of thousands of civilians behind those walls?"
Blight's beard of fog twitched, almost like a shrug. "Collateral in an overdue correction."
"Right, because nothing says 'correction' like arson and mass panic." Gale rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his newly extended blade settle into something familiar.
"Listen, Captain Smokescreen: I've had a long week, my coat is ruined, my monk won't shut up about booze, and I just discovered a terrifying upgrade on my Devil Fruit I can't wait to beta‑test."
Blight's emerald eyes blazed, the mist around him thickening into twin serpent‑shaped tendrils that whipped forward with a hiss.
"It's regrettable," he intoned, voice echoing through the vapor, "to snuff a young spark before it reaches full radiance… but necessity is a stern master."
"Oh, spare me the opera‑villain soliloquy," Gale snapped—just as the fog snakes lunged.
He vaulted backward, boots skidding on loose dirt. Even mid‑air he thrust his rapier like a javelin, muttering a sharp command under his breath.
Metal stretched—razor‑thin, impossibly long—whistling through the air until the tip punched straight through Blight's chest and burst out the other side.
Blight didn't so much as flinch. He simply stepped sideways, letting the blade slide through his torso the way sunlight slips through a curtain. The hole in his "body" closed instantly, the vapor knitting back together like a woundless ghost.
Gale's lips tightened. He recalled the steel in a ripple, shrinking it to normal length. Logia, then. That figured. The man was literally a walking weather pattern.
"Great," Gale muttered, planting his stance. "Creepy fog ghost—and intangible. My night just keeps improving."
His left hand drifted beneath his cloak to the revolver strapped tight against his ribs. The cylinder was loaded with three ordinary rounds and three sea‑stone slugs—courtesy of Kizaru's quartermaster, who had either believed Gale's request was standard or simply hadn't cared.
Probably the latter.
One clean shot with those green‑tinged babies, and Blight was as tangible as a drunk on shore leave.
Problem: getting a clean shot.
Blight's arms dissolved and re‑formed into more tendrils, swirling around him like coils of a colossal python. Every inch of the hilltop was now a roiling field of vaporous blades, twitching and slashing at random—no obvious pattern, no easy opening.
Need space, Gale thought, eyes flicking over the shifting fog. Need him to commit.
He lifted his rapier, smirking despite the sweat starting to bead at his temple. "Alright, Captain Smokescreen. Round two."
If he could bait Blight into a solid strike—something big, something reckless—he could dodge, create that fleeting gap, and draw.
One breath in.
He stepped forward, blade flicking out in a taunting salute. "Come on, old man. Show me why you traded the navy blues for cosplay fog."
Blight's beard of mist curled, and the green eyes narrowed.
Challenge accepted.
...
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