The moment Gale and Rigel clashed, it was less like a fight and more like a small earthquake had just decided to throw hands.
Gale's rapier met Rigel's bare fist in a blinding blur—metal shrieked, bone cracked the air, and the sheer impact sent dust spiraling from the arena floor like a mini sandstorm. The shockwave of their collision made several nobles in the front row tragically spill their wine.
"AND THEY'RE OFF! Bayle meets Rigel head-on, and someone please check the Richter scale because that impact just made my ancestors feel it!"
Gale backpedaled immediately, boots skidding across the stone as Rigel surged forward with zero hesitation, throwing a blisteringly fast right hook that would've taken Gale's head off if he hadn't ducked—barely.
Okay, Gale thought as his ears rang from the missed punch. He's strong. And fast. Like, 'I-eat-three-tigers-for-breakfast' fast. Awesome.
Rigel didn't let up. He moved like a bullet in human form, fists flying in precise, powerful arcs.
There was no wasted motion. Just pressure. Raw, overwhelming pressure. It took everything Gale had to stay just out of reach—dodging by inches, redirecting blows with the flat of his blade, occasionally throwing in sarcastic commentary to cope with the fact that this man might accidentally murder him.
"You hit like a freight train," Gale gasped between gritted teeth, parrying a blow that nearly numbed his entire arm.
"WHAT A DEFENSE! Bayle is dancing on a razor's edge! One wrong move and he's gonna be flatter than the royal treasury after a tea party tax hike!"
Rigel didn't answer. He didn't need to. He just pivoted, swept Gale's leg with an immaculate hook kick, and followed it with a downward punch aimed straight for Gale's ribs.
Nope—! Gale twisted midair, his coat flaring as he fell into a roll. The punch slammed into the ground where he'd been a second before, leaving a crater in the stone.
"Right," Gale muttered, getting back to his feet. "This is fine. Everything's fine. My opponent is a human siege weapon, but—fine."
Another flurry of punches. A spinning elbow. Rigel's strikes were precise, honed—disciplined. He wasn't just strong. He'd been trained. He knew footwork. Knew how to corner an opponent. How to read movement.
And Gale was losing.
So he cheated.
Just a little.
He inhaled sharply and let the energy flow into him—his core tightening as he triggered his Devil Fruit powers. The world seemed to shudder for a second. His body suddenly felt lighter—as if the weight of gravity had taken a coffee break.
Rigel lunged again—Gale vanished.
Not literally. But close. His speed shot through the roof, and in the blink of an eye, he was behind Rigel, rapier already arcing in a flash of steel and dust.
Rigel turned too late.
The blade sliced across his chest—not deep, but clean, drawing a brilliant red line of blood across his torso. The momentum carried Gale forward, and he spun low, using his fruit to increase the density of his leg mid-sweep and knock Rigel off his feet like a human wrecking ball.
Rigel hit the ground hard, the crowd gasping, then bursting into chaotic applause.
"OHHHH! He's down! Bayle lands a cut across the chest and drops the mighty Rigel! Could this be the turning point?! Is Bayle from Jagged Peak about to steal the spotlight?!"
Gale stood over him, panting. "Not gonna lie, that felt pretty cool."
Then Rigel moved.
Slowly. Powerfully. He pushed himself off the ground like it was a minor inconvenience. His chest bled, but he didn't even glance at the wound. Instead, he cracked his neck, then his knuckles, and looked straight at Gale with that same calm intensity.
"...Seriously?" Gale muttered.
The crowd began to chant.
"RI-GEL! RI-GEL! RI-GEL!"
Gale stared around. "Hold on, am I the main character here or not? What the hell kind of crowd favorite reversal arc is this?!"
"AND HE RISES! Like a phoenix! A sweaty, terrifying phoenix! Rigel shakes it off like it was a paper cut! What is this man made of?!"
Rigel was already moving again.
This time, faster.
Gale barely managed to react, shifting his body's density mid-step to make himself lighter and weave between the oncoming punches. Rigel's fists were like hammers—every graze hurt like hell. One clipped Gale's shoulder and something popped—his arm went numb.
"Great. That's a broken bone. Probably. Definitely. Who needs symmetry anyway?" he wheezed.
Gale responded with precise thrusts and footwork, mixing his fencing technique with density tricks—making his rapier heavier mid-swing to add force, or feather-light to redirect quickly. He used bursts of low gravity to leap over Rigel's sweeps and sudden high-density stomps to anchor himself against incoming force.
Still, Rigel pushed through it all.
He wasn't just strong—he was relentless. A spinning back kick knocked the wind out of Gale. A punch to the ribs had him spitting blood behind his mask. His left arm hung on his side, and there was a good chance two or three ribs were cracked.
"This is unreal! Bayle is holding his own with a broken arm and internal bleeding, and all I did today was spill soup on myself!"
And yet.
He smiled.
Because this—this was fun.
Painful, but fun.
Rigel came in again, fist cocked back, crowd screaming his name—and Gale did the only thing he could think of.
He stepped into the punch.
Not away. Not aside. Into it.
But just as it connected, Gale dropped his density mid-impact. The force of Rigel's haymaker passed through like wind, throwing off the big man's balance for just a fraction of a second.
Which was all Gale needed.
With a yell, he twisted, brought his heel down like a meteor, increasing its density mid-swing— WHAM—right into Rigel's shoulder.
Rigel staggered but didn't fall. Of course he didn't.
"Okay," Gale muttered, spitting blood again, "now you're just showing off."
"And it looks like Bayle is somehow still alive, folks!" the commentator cried over the roar of the crowd. "I repeat—Bayle has not yet perished! And he seems to be fighting back with what I can only assume is either desperation or pure, uncut stupidity!"
Gale threw a punch—just for once. Straight jab. Not with the blade, not with tricks. Just a good old-fashioned brawler's punch.
Rigel caught it.
Effortlessly.
"Oh no," Gale whispered.
Rigel's other arm came up like a piston.
Gale caught that.
For a moment, the two of them were locked in a pure deadlift of human willpower—each with a fist in the other's grasp, muscles straining, blood dripping, the tension so thick it could've been sold as gourmet jelly.
Their eyes locked. Sweat dripped. The crowd held its breath.
And then Gale smiled.
"What now?" Rigel growled, voice like gravel being ground through a war drum.
"We headbutt," Gale grinned. "Obviously."
CRACK.
Their foreheads collided with a sickening sound that made several people in the crowd physically flinch.
"GAH—" Gale blinked stars out of his eyes. "Okay. Ow. Regret."
Rigel grunted. "Again."
CRACK.
"IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING!?" the commentator bellowed. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think we've entered the ancient and noble martial tradition of…headbutt chess. I, for one, have lost all grasp on reality, and I am HERE FOR IT."
CRACK.
Gale's knees buckled. "Seriously, what is your skull made of?"
Rigel smirked faintly through a bloody lip. "Discipline."
Gale's eyes narrowed. "Mine's made of spite."
He triggered his Devil Fruit again—just enough to make his forehead denser.
CRACK!
"D...damn it..." Rigel's head snapped back like he'd been hit with a hammer.
He blinked once.
Then dropped like a tower losing a bet with gravity.
BOOM.
Silence.
The kind of silence that feels heavy. Like even the air forgot how to breathe.
Rigel lay on the arena floor, unconscious. Gale stood over him, swaying slightly, forehead bleeding, arms shaking—but upright.
Barely.
"...LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," the commentator whispered, almost reverently. "I… I don't believe it. Bayle has—Bayle has WON."
The crowd exploded.
Some leapt to their feet, screaming and cheering, fists in the air. Others booed like their taxes just doubled. One particularly furious noble chucked a bottle onto the arena floor and screamed, "I BET MY HOUSE ON RIGEL, YOU SKINNY DEVIL!"
Gale glanced toward the noise, gave a cheery wave, and said, "Invest smarter, my guy."
"There are cheers, there are threats of lawsuits, and someone just lit a chicken on fire in protest," the commentator added, voice breathless. "This is easily the greatest fight I've ever seen, and I once watched a man lose to a cat. But folks—Bayle, against every conceivable odd, has done it!"
Gale exhaled and turned away from Rigel, limping toward the arena exit.
Everything hurt. His arm was still numb. His ribs were still protesting the concept of being alive. His forehead felt like it had tried to solve calculus with a brick wall.
But—
He grinned.
Because he'd won.
Even if the crowd half wanted him dead, and someone just yelled "Eat shit, you twink!" at him.
He was still smiling as he vanished into the corridor beyond the arena, leaving behind bloodstains, echoes of cheers, a passed-out tank of a man…
…and the sweet, sweet sound of a commentator sobbing into his mic.
...
CRASH.
Another priceless vase exploded against the wall of Magnon's office, showering ceramic shards across the gold-inlaid floor.
"USELESS!" Magnon howled, flinging a chair so hard it embedded halfway into the wall like a particularly aggressive modern art installation. "WORTHLESS, MUSCLEBOUND, BRAINLESS COW!"
His underling—an unfortunate man named Pip, who'd once dreamed of becoming a pastry chef before life derailed him into criminal middle management—stood trembling in the corner. He'd plastered himself into the wallpaper like it was a survival strategy, eyes wide, hands raised slightly as if they could stop a flying couch.
So far, they hadn't.
"It was Rigel!" Magnon spat, grabbing a heavy bronze paperweight shaped like a sea king and narrowly resisting the urge to brain someone with it. "Rigel! My undefeated champion! My walking stepstone to greatness! What is he now?! Huh? A punchline!"
He paced the room in furious, twitchy circles, frothing like a kettle someone forgot on the stove. His cloak flared behind him with every stomp. "Do you know what the Joker will say when he hears about this, Pip?"
Pip gulped audibly. "N-no?"
"Heads will ROLL, Pip!" Magnon shrieked, throwing his hands to the ceiling. "And I don't want mine to be among them! Have you seen what he did to Droz after he miscounted some gold bars?!"
"...He fed him to the fish, sir."
"Man-eating fish, Pip! With allergies! They were sneezing human bits for days!"
He threw his arms out dramatically and knocked over a bust of himself, which shattered with a satisfying crack. He paused. Looked at it. Then slowly began to grin. That dangerous kind of grin people usually associated with large sharks or politicians mid-scandal.
"Wait…" he whispered. "Wait wait wait. It doesn't have to be my head, does it?"
Pip dared to blink. "Sir?"
"No, no no. It could be his. The little upstart. The string bean in boots." Magnon's eyes gleamed, and he spun on his heel to face Pip. "Bayle."
Pip flinched so hard he nearly fell backward into the drapes.
"Yes, Bayle!" Magnon chuckled, low and manic, like a kettle whistling under its breath. "He's the reason Rigel's lying in a puddle of his own failure! He made me look like a fool—me! I practically sold tickets to that fight with a guarantee that Rigel would win! I called him 'meat grinder adjacent!' Do you know how expensive that branding is?!"
He jabbed a finger in Pip's direction. "Where is he now? He should still be at the colosseum, gloating, counting prize money, basking in his fifteen seconds of irrelevance."
Pip hesitated.
That was his mistake.
Magnon's smile vanished like it owed him money. "Pip."
Pip shrank even further. "H-he left, sir. Right after the fight. Walked out of the arena and just… vanished without even asking about the money..."
Magnon stared at him.
Then made a noise somewhere between a snarl and a tea kettle dying. "HE WHAT?!"
He grabbed the nearest object—which, unfortunately for Pip, was a brass teapot—and hurled it at his head.
Pip yelped and ducked, the teapot smashing against the wall behind him, whistling faintly as it bounced and rolled into oblivion.
Magnon stood in the wreckage of his office, seething, fists clenched, breath ragged.
"Find him, Pip," he said coldly. "Before he becomes the one telling my story. Or you can go introduce yourself to the sneezy fish first. Your call."
Pip nodded so fast his hat fell off.
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
And he ran.
Magnon turned back to the ruined bust of himself, glaring down at it.
"You were supposed to be symbolic," he muttered. Then crushed one of its ears underfoot for emphasis.
...
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