From his vantage point at the edge of the rubble, Gale watched Admiral Kizaru stroll out of the wreckage like a man leaving a spa. In one hand, he casually dragged the limp body of Diamante, the pirate's eyes rolled so far back they were practically trying to see his own brain.
Gale's own brain had turned into a broken record player, looping the same mantra over and over:
Don't be suspicious, don't be suspicious, don't be suspicious, oooh—don't be suspicious—don't—
"Oh, there you are, youngster…" Kizaru's voice drifted over lazily, snapping Gale out of the mental loop like a slap to the face. "I was afraid you'd been caught in my attack…"
It took every scrap of self-control Gale possessed not to fire back with Then maybe you shouldn't have nuked the entire park, you photonic lunatic.
Instead, he plastered on a polite smile, gave a thumbs up, and said, "Good work, sir."
And for once, he actually meant it.
He looked past the admiral, taking in the devastation. The theme park wasn't just wrecked—it was annihilated. The rides were scrap heaps, the ground was pitted with craters the size of small fishing boats, and the once-proud Ferris wheel now resembled a pile of rejected ship parts.
Even if someone did decide to rebuild it, it'd take months… maybe a year. Plenty of time for the place to stop attracting fishmen and merfolk to the surface just to be kidnapped and enslaved.
Kizaru gave a lazy nod. "Oooh, that was nothing…" he said, as though vaporizing several city blocks was the equivalent of swatting a fly.
Then his gaze dropped to the unconscious Diamante dangling from his hand. "Still… this is a troublesome situation we've got here," he murmured. "This fellow is a subordinate of a Warlord…"
Gale arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "I didn't know being a Warlord's subordinate pardoned you for human trafficking and helping in the murder of a Celestial Dragon."
Before Kizaru could even open his mouth, a shadow fell across them. One blink later, a man in a pristine Marine coat stood at the admiral's side, his sharp striped suit visible underneath, his mohawk cutting a clean silhouette against the night sky.
Vice Admiral Momonga didn't waste time with greetings. His eyes flicked to Gale, sharp and evaluating.
"It doesn't," he said flatly. "But this isn't your regular Warlord's subordinate… He's special. In more ways than one."
He let out a slow, tired sigh—the kind that said I've been in the Marines too long for this nonsense.
"It's a good thing Saint Vlancio isn't dead… or this would turn more troublesome than any of us could imagine."
Kizaru raised one eyebrow, his voice dripping with lazy surprise.
"Oooh? He isn't dead? That's some good news, at least…"
Momonga gave a single nod. "Yes. His wounds were deep, but the doctors got to him just in time. He won't recover anytime soon… but he'll make it."
Gale's grin crept across his face before he could stop it.
"Good. So what happens to this guy?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the limp Diamante still dangling from Kizaru's hand like a particularly ugly carpet.
Momonga turned his gaze to the pirate, his expression cooling into pure stone.
"We still don't know what possessed him to plot against a Celestial Dragon—or if it was Doflamingo's intention or his own." His voice dropped, weighty with the kind of finality only a Vice Admiral could give. "Either way, he'll have to be sacrificed."
There was a pause, then the faintest glint of steel in Momonga's eyes.
"Depending on how much his boss is willing to lose, he'll either be publicly executed… or thrown into the deepest level of Impel Down."
Gale tilted his head, mulling it over.
'Public execution means a messy crowd and a lot of shouting. Impel Down means a dark hole and him never seeing daylight again. Honestly, either way, I'm not losing sleep over it.'
Meanwhile, Kizaru was still holding Diamante like a bag of trash he couldn't be bothered to put down. "Ooooh… either way, sounds scary for him…" he said with the enthusiasm of someone commenting on the weather.
Gale gave an easy shrug, the kind that said yep, my work here is done and I am not sticking around for paperwork I'm not directly responsible for.
Clearing his throat, he put on his most professional voice—well, his version of it.
"Well, it's been an honor, sirs, but I gotta get going. Still need to write my report on the incident and check on my subordinates…"
Kizaru, still holding Diamante like a sack of laundry, gave a slow nod.
"Oooh… you do that, youngster. And get some rest. You've had quite a night…"
"Don't have to tell me twice," Gale replied, tipping his head in mock salute before turning on his heel. In the next instant, he was gone—vanishing in a blur, the terracotta elegance of Florencio's footwork technique carrying him away like a stage performer exiting with the last bow of the evening.
Kizaru's eyes followed the motion, and for a fleeting second, his lazy smile deepened. "Oooh… what a well-behaved young man, wouldn't you say, Momonga?"
Momonga's mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking in the direction Gale had vanished. He gave the faintest shake of his head.
"…I wouldn't say 'well-behaved,' sir. But he's definitely… capable."
The pause he left on capable was long enough to hang in the air like an unspoken "and dangerous."
Kizaru just chuckled, swinging Diamante's limp form over his shoulder like a beach towel and humming to himself as if this whole night hadn't been a diplomatic nightmare waiting to happen.
...
Vlancio Shepherd lay sprawled across the enormous silk-sheeted bed in what was, for tonight, his hotel.
The entire establishment had been cleared out—guests kicked to the street, staff bribed into vanishing—because, of course, it would be beneath a Celestial Dragon to convalesce in the same building as peasants.
Even so, the warmth of blood leaking from the deep stab wound in his chest clung to him like a bad smell. Every shallow breath made it feel like molten lead was pooling under his ribs.
And yet… the pain wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was the insult.
Why me?
It was all he could think about.
Why was he, of all divine beings, the one to suffer this streak of outrageous misfortune? First, losing a finger—a god's finger!—to that filthy old man. Then stabbed by that crazy woman.
And now this.
'I am a god,' he thought bitterly, staring up at the ornate chandelier, 'I should be untouchable… worshipped… feared… and yet I've been assaulted not once, not twice, but three times! By the same vermin!'
He was so lost in his divine indignation that the first itch in his throat barely registered.
Then it worsened.
Vlancio tried to demand that someone bring him water, but no words came out.
Instead, the itch became a sharp, choking pressure. His lungs strained for air, but it felt like a cork was jammed in his windpipe. His fingers twitched toward his neck… or they would have, if his arms would actually move.
They didn't.
His eyes widened.
The sensation of helplessness struck him harder than any blade had that night. His wheezing breaths turned ragged, his gaze darting wildly toward the door, praying for a servant, a Marine, someone.
As if on cue, the door clicked open.
Relief bloomed instantly—finally, help!
But the figure who stepped in was no nurse.
Tall? A little. Broad-shouldered? Not at all. It was a scrawny man dressed head-to-toe in black, his face hidden behind a dragon mask.
Vlancio's initial joy faltered into confusion… and then into dread.
The man closed the door behind him with calm finality, picked up a chair from the corner, and carried it over to the bed with the casual air of someone rearranging furniture in his own living room.
He set it down beside the bed, sat, and only then reached up to remove the mask.
The face beneath was young, sharp-eyed… and instantly recognizable.
It was the Marine officer who had "tried to save" him at the auction hall.
Vlancio's mind reeled. 'What is he doing here?'
He wheezed again, straining to form words—Can't… breathe…—but all that emerged was a pitiful rasp. His eyes pleaded with the man, desperately willing him to fetch help.
Instead, the Marine just smiled faintly, as if they were about to have a casual chat over tea.
"You're probably so confused right now," Gale began in that casual, conversational tone people usually reserved for discussing the weather. "Confused about what's going on… why it's happening to you…"
He chuckled, a quiet, mirthless sound. "But there's no need to worry."
Vlancio's wide, bloodshot eyes screamed the opposite. The pain, the confusion, the choking—all of it written plain across his features.
Unbothered, Gale leaned forward just enough for his shadow to stretch across the Celestial Dragon's bed. "Because I'm here to tell you exactly why."
He gave it a beat, just long enough for the anticipation to turn sour in Vlancio's gut, then added with a faint smirk, "First things first… let's get one thing straight. You're going to die. And there's nothing anyone can do to save you. Well—" he tilted his head, as if weighing it, "—maybe me. But I won't do that."
Vlancio's throat constricted tighter, a wet, rattling wheeze escaping him. His eyes bulged, but Gale's tone stayed conversational.
"Remember that sword the slave used to stab you?" Gale asked, as if talking about some forgotten household object.
"Yeah, that one. Well, it was covered in poison. Special poison. The kind that doesn't exist outside one faraway island, and no one outside that island—and yours truly—knows about it. The guy who stabbed you? I kind of forced him into doing it and wasn't sure if he'd half-ass out of spite, so I took precautions..."
Vlancio's body began to convulse, the bed creaking under the sudden jerks. The wheezing grew frantic. Gale wasn't sure if it was the toxin acting up or if Vlancio was just trying to gurgle out threats, bargains, or divine proclamations about his untouchable status.
Either way, it didn't matter.
"Anyway, now that we've established the how," Gale continued smoothly, "let's establish the why."
He straightened up slightly, looking him dead in the eyes. "You remember an island by the name of Ravellan?"
The reaction was instant—Vlancio's eyes widened in naked shock.
Gale's grin sharpened. "Of course you do. That's where you lost your finger, after all." He let out a short sigh, leaning back as if reminiscing. "Coincidentally, that's also where my teacher lost his family. All thanks to you."
The grin widened just enough to show teeth. "So yeah, that's karma for you. A real bitch."
He rose slowly from his chair, smoothing his coat as if preparing to leave a dinner party. "Your death will be slow, painful… kinda gross too, to be honest. And I just had dinner, so I'll leave you to it."
Pulling the dragon mask back over his face, Gale turned for the door.
Behind him, Vlancio's wheezes pitched higher, more desperate—like he was trying to wring a final command or prayer from his failing lungs.
Gale just chuckled under the mask. "Save your breath," he said over his shoulder, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "No one's gonna hear you. And even if they did…"
His hand touched the door handle, pausing just long enough to deliver the last nail in the coffin.
"…there's nothing they can do to save that pathetic little life of yours."
The door shut with a soft click, leaving the so-called god alone with his poison, his pain, and the creeping, suffocating certainty of his own mortality.
...
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