Gale rolled his shoulders, letting out a breath as he adjusted the collar of his jagged black coat. His dragon mask rested securely on his face, the polished fangs gleaming in the mirror like they were eager to bite someone. Probably Rigel. Preferably Rigel.
He cracked his knuckles and gave himself one last look. Everything was in place. Muscles warm, limbs loose, morale... well, morale was somewhere between confident and should've had a second breakfast. Still, it was go time.
He reached for the door—hand on the knob, dramatic exit pending—when—
Knock knock.
He froze. Then stared at the door like it had just insulted his mother.
Another knock, this one sheepish. Timid.
Gale opened it just a crack, one brow raised beneath the mask, and there he was. That same jumpy inn employee, peeking in with all the courage of a damp sponge.
"Sir Bayle," the employee said with an apologetic smile, "you have a visitor."
Gale squinted at him. "If it's another slimeball trying to bribe me, I will throw you out the nearest window. No hesitation. No refunds."
The employee paled. "N-no, sir! This one says he's an acquaintance. A sailor from the Jackdaw. A merchant ship, sir. Says it's about... settling accounts?"
Gale paused. For a second, the gears in his brain did a full rotation before the lightbulb went off.
"Oh," he muttered, then grinned under the mask. "Right. I did save that tub from Bruno Malko, didn't I?"
Between breaking into jails and fending off fat aristocrats with suspiciously shiny foreheads, Gale had actually forgotten. Forgotten. That someone owed him money.
Truly, he had lived a full life this week.
He nodded. "Lead the way. I suddenly feel... fiscally motivated."
The employee gave a hasty bow and scampered off, and Gale followed with all the swagger of a man about to pick up his paycheck.
Sure enough, standing in the lobby near the fireplace was a rugged sailor with sea salt still clinging to his sleeves. The man looked up, recognized Gale, and grinned.
"Sir Bayle," he said, "Captain Jack told me to find you. He's wrapped up business here in Centaurea and plans to set sail this afternoon. Just needs to finish hauling the cargo."
Gale tilted his head. "This afternoon? You folks always so eager to sleep on rocking wood again?"
The sailor laughed. "Normally we'd wait till dawn—nothing like one more night in a proper bed. But we're behind schedule. Got folks waiting on those crates."
Gale nodded, half-listening, already picturing the jingling of coins dropping into his pouch. "Tell Jack I'll swing by after the main event at the Colosseum. And that I might need another ride...."
"Aye, will do." The sailor tipped his hat and walked out, boots thumping across the floor.
Gale watched him go, still grinning as visions of easy money danced in his head.
But then… the grin slowly faded.
His brows drew together.
Wait.
How the hell did that guy know where to find him?
No one on the Jackdaw crew knew he was staying here. Definitely not under the name "Bayle from Jagged Peak." And he hadn't exactly been handing out business cards with his masked face on them.
His eyes narrowed behind the dragon mask.
"...Huh," he muttered to himself. "That's not ominous at all."
He scratched his chin, then turned toward the door again. He had a duel to get to, and apparently, a mystery to quietly panic about later, having already made a mental note to check for tails and switch inns.
...
The dressing room was... absurdly luxurious. Gale stood in the middle of it, eyebrows climbing higher every time he glanced around. Silk curtains. A polished marble floor that probably cost more than the Jackdaw itself.
There was even a faint, flowery aroma in the air that screamed "you definitely can't afford this."
He rolled his shoulders and shook out his arms, muttering, "And here I thought the inn was fancy."
That place had fluffy pillows, hot water, and a complimentary breakfast that didn't try to kill him. By Centaurea standards, it was five-star. But this? This was luxury built specifically to make poor people feel insecure.
Still, it beat a splintery bench and a drafty alley.
Gale, dressed in his signature jagged coat and dragon mask, shifted his weight and decreased the density of his body ever so slightly. His feet barely kissed the floor as he moved, dancing through a routine of shadowboxing jabs and hooks.
Left, right, duck, uppercut. His coat fluttered with each strike, the air snapping with soft whooshes.
In his head, the imaginary crowd roared. He threw a final punch straight into his invisible opponent's jaw—
BAM.
Knocked him out cold.
"...And the new Heavyweight Champion of the World!" Gale raised both arms in triumph, grinning at no one. "Harlow 'Dragon-Fist' Gale!"
He gave himself a slow, self-congratulatory nod. "I'd like to thank the Academy, my sensei, and that one random guy who said I looked weak and fueled my villain arc."
Knock knock.
Gale froze mid-celebration. He let out a long, pained sigh.
"Being famous is such a curse," he grumbled, letting his arms drop. "Why can't people leave me alone until I'm at least halfway through my victory speech?"
He shuffled over to the door, muttering something about autograph hounds and people who wanted to name their children after him. He opened it—just a crack—and instantly regretted every choice he'd ever made.
Staring back at him with the greasiest grin this side of a frying pan was Magnon.
The man's face was shiny in all the wrong ways, like someone had tried to butter a watermelon.
Gale's first instinct was to slam the door so hard the hinges filed for divorce. But instead, he closed his eyes, exhaled, and asked through gritted teeth:
"What do you want?"
Magnon's eyes twinkled like a toad in moonlight. "Oh, nothing much. Just came to ask… what'll it be?"
Gale leaned against the doorframe and fixed him with a deadpan stare. "For the third time—wait. And. See."
Magnon gave a theatrical sigh, clutching his chest like he'd just been deeply wounded. "Yes, yes, I intend to! But I fear there's been a... misunderstanding."
Gale raised a brow. "What kind of misunderstanding? You tripped and fell into a vat of oil and that's just your life now?"
Magnon chuckled, which made Gale want to immediately disassociate from the concept of sound.
"I may not have represented myself entirely accurately," Magnon said, his tone dropping slightly. "While I am the one who bought Rigel, trained him, sculpted him into the legend you're about to face... I'm merely a middleman."
Gale's interest was piqued despite himself. "Middleman for who? Some underground fight ring? A betting syndicate? The Ghost of Bad Fashion Decisions?"
Magnon smiled, that slick politician smile that made your soul feel like it needed a shower.
"No," he said simply. "I work for someone who goes by... Joker."
The name dropped like a stone.
Magnon continued, "He's the one who stands to gain the most from Rigel's 'invincible reputation.' Should it go well, he intends to sell him for... let's say, a very large favor from people in high places...."
Gale's mouth twisted. "And if things don't go well?"
"Then Joker will be... less pleased." Magnon shrugged, as if the consequences involved a spoiled lunch and not, say, a gruesome disappearance.
Gale folded his arms, his weight shifting ever so slightly as his gaze narrowed behind the dragon mask. The usual glint of sarcasm in his eye dimmed, giving way to something colder, sharper—like someone had just swapped out the jester for the executioner.
So. Magnon was getting impatient.
That much was obvious.
Now the greaseball wasn't just leaning on bribes or sleazy promises—he was name-dropping his boss like this was some shady MLM pitch. Except instead of trying to sell Gale soap, he was selling threats wrapped in oil-paper.
The message was clear enough:
Throw the match, and the boss will be pleased. Don't, and we've got ourselves a problem. A big problem. The kind that came with a body count.
Gale clenched his jaw behind the mask, resisting the urge to break something expensive. Or greasy. Preferably both.
He hated being used. He really hated being threatened. And he violently hated metaphors that smelled like spoiled pork fat.
What was supposed to be a simple gladiator match—punch a guy, look cool, maybe sign a poster or two—had mutated into some shady power play involving politics, human trafficking, the Celestial Dragons, and now an underworld emperor. You know, just another day in the life of someone who had very clearly stated on multiple occasions: "I don't want to get involved in anything world-ending, thank you."
But the hits kept coming.
It started with a shady bribe from a walking oil slick, and now—now—there was a deal on the line. A deal involving the literal space nobility of the One Piece world and.
That alone would've been bad enough, but then Magnon just had to drop the J-word, and suddenly everything clicked.
Gale felt a chill settle in his chest, the realization slamming into him like a blunt cannonball. Joker.
Not just some underworld nickname.
Donquixote Doflamingo.
Former Warlord of the Sea. Puppetmaster of Dressrosa. The man who ran a human trafficking empire like it was a lemonade stand. The guy who made deals with world leaders while wearing pink flamingo feathers unironically.
That Joker.
"Of course it's him," Gale thought, resisting the urge to smack his forehead against the very expensive, definitely-not-his wall.
Celestial Dragons. Human trafficking. Who else would it be? Buggy the Clown?
It had to be Doflamingo, the Machiavellian flamingo himself. The one guy Gale absolutely, positively never wanted to have any kind of entanglement with.
Strong. Smart. Completely bath-salts insane. That delightful trifecta.
Still, Gale kept his expression completely flat. Not a twitch. Not a blink. Just the same, dead-eyed dragon stare as he said:
"You done?"
Magnon grinned. The lack of response didn't faze him—if anything, it made him happier. The silence spoke volumes, and the tiny pause Gale took before speaking was all he needed to know the message had landed.
Like a fart in an elevator.
"I'm simply passing a message," Magnon said with a flourish, like he expected a tip. "Good luck out there."
And with that, the slimeball slithered off, leaving the scent of overpriced cologne and moral decay in his wake.
The door clicked shut.
Gale let out a breath and rubbed his face under the mask. "Thank god I wore a disguise…"
He stared at his reflection in the dressing room mirror—a masked gladiator with a target on his back and a growing list of regrets.
"This is shaping up to be such a shit show," he muttered.
And the worst part?
Gale wasn't even sure...
...
The roar of the crowd rolled over the arena like a tidal wave of bloodlust and overpriced concessions. Flags waved, vendors shouted, someone in the stands was already drunk enough to scream "MARRY ME, RIGEL!" despite clearly holding a sign that read "GO BAYLE!!"
Gale stood at one end of the circular arena, arms loose at his sides, breathing steadily through the dragon-shaped mask. The hot Centaurean sun gleamed off the polished stone floor, and even with all the noise, all the spectacle, there was a moment of calm—like the eye of a storm.
Opposite him stood Rigel—tall, broad-shouldered, shirtless and glowing with that annoying natural hero aura that made Gale want to punch him even before the match started.
Then came the voice of doom—the commentator—projecting across the arena with all the subtlety of a cannon blast.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Disreputable gamblers and suspiciously enthusiastic nobility!! Today's final match is upon us!! The moment you've all been waiting for!"
Gale resisted the urge to yawn. He had time. This part usually took a while.
"On the left! Our dark horse! The rising star! The unpredictable menace of mucus and violence! The man who took out his opponents with a slap, a sneeze, and even a booger! Right from his nose! Give it up for the Masked Dread—Bayle of Jagged Peak!"
The crowd erupted, half in cheers, half in laughter.
"I did not sling a booger at that guy," Gale muttered under his breath. "It was more of a... strategic sinus projectile."
The commentator didn't stop. He never stopped.
"And on the right! The undefeated champion of the Colosseum! The iron-fisted juggernaut! The man with abs so firm they've been declared a public landmark! RIIIGEL!!"
More cheers. Louder ones this time. Someone in the crowd probably fainted. Another marriage proposal.
Gale gave Rigel a glance. The guy was calm, poised. He'd fought here countless times and it showed. He didn't posture or flex—didn't need to.
This guy's the real deal, Gale thought. Hopefully not the "real deal who accidentally breaks spines with hugs" type.
The commentator raised one arm theatrically.
"Fighters! Are you ready?!"
Rigel nodded silently.
Gale gave a thumbs up with exactly the kind of enthusiasm you'd expect from someone who definitely hadn't been threatened by a Warlord of the Sea earlier that day.
The commentator dropped his hand. "Then let the FINAL MATCH—BEGIN!"
The crowd exploded.
Neither of them moved.
For a few drawn-out seconds, they simply stared each other down—two gladiators soaking in the pressure, the noise, the weight of expectation.
Then Gale grinned under the mask.
"You know," he called out, just loud enough for Rigel to hear, "I've been hanging around this place for a few days now. Watching the matches. And I've noticed a pattern."
Rigel tilted his head slightly, curious.
Gale jerked a thumb toward the stands. "The longer the commentator spends hyping someone up, the more useless they turn out to be. Just sayin'. Hope you're the exception."
Rigel smirked, flexing one fist.
"He hyped you up too, didn't he?"
Gale laughed. "Fair enough."
And then—for the first time since he set foot in the Colosseum—he reached behind his back and unsheathed his rapier. The slender blade shimmered in the sunlight, deadly and elegant. It was a statement.
No more playing around.
"Let's get this over with," Gale said.
And he charged.
Rigel met him halfway, not with a weapon, but with bare fists, the air between them crackling with the tension of an oncoming storm.
...
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