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...
The sun was just starting to dip below the horizon, setting Marineford aglow in hues of orange and gold, like the world had been slapped with a really dramatic Instagram filter.
Gale wandered through the quieter edges of the base, hands in his coat pockets and mind running on autopilot after another long day of being pelted with bullets and lectures.
Eventually, his feet led him to the one place no one else ever seemed to go—the Marineford scrapyard.
Technically, it was more like a battleship graveyard. Hulking steel corpses of old warships sat half-embedded in the dirt, rusted and dented, their proud flags long since tattered. Some had moss creeping up their hulls.
One had a seagull nesting inside a cannon. Another had a suspiciously Gale-shaped dent in its side—he decided not to think too hard about that.
He strolled up to the nearest ship, pausing as his eyes caught something odd.
The entire bow was peppered with shallow craters and fist-sized dents.
Gale raised an eyebrow. "...Was this thing used in a boxing match?"
He leaned closer.
Yup. Those were knuckle imprints.
Lots of them.
Someone had punched the hell out of this battleship. Repeatedly. Like it owed them money.
"Training or therapy," Gale muttered, "either way, I think I know who did this…"
There was only one person in Marineford deranged enough to turn a warship into a punching bag—and strong enough to make a battleship look like it lost a street fight.
Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp.
The old war machine himself.
It had been two weeks since Gale first arrived at Marineford, and miraculously, he hadn't run into Garp even once. Not even a distant yell or an airborne cannonball in the sky.
A small, cautious part of him wondered if the old man had been deployed somewhere far, far away.
The rest of him just called it what it was: divine mercy.
"Not seeing that lunatic has been the highlight of my military career," Gale muttered to himself, giving the battered ship a wide berth. "Seriously. One wrong comment and I'd be launched into low orbit."
Because hanging around Garp wasn't like hanging around a mentor—it was like hanging around a live grenade that didn't want to explode, but had no concept of personal space or volume control.
Every conversation felt like a life-or-death encounter with your emotionally violent grandpa.
As for Poqin?
Oh, he'd been around plenty. In fact, Gale saw him practically every morning when they shuffled out of their government-issued little houses like two sad soldiers in a slice-of-life anime.
They'd nod, maybe exchange a "yo," and then split off to their respective courses—him to his sharpshooting and navigation, Poqin to whatever chaos the gremlin monk had signed up for that day.
And every night, like clockwork, Poqin would knock on Gale's door with two or three bottles of booze and a look that said "I definitely didn't steal this from a Marine officer's cabinet, so don't ask."
"Where the hell do you keep getting this stuff?" Gale had asked once.
Poqin just smiled serenely and said, "Photosynthesis."
Gale never asked again.
He had theories, though. Maybe Poqin was part plant. Maybe he had a booze-producing gland. Maybe he was part of a black-market monastery that brewed whiskey in holy pots.
Whatever the truth was, Gale had stopped trying to fight it. Some questions were better left unanswered—like what was in Poqin's tea, or whether he'd really fought a giant centipede once "for spiritual enlightenment."
Gale gave the beat-up old battleship one last look—the kind of look you give to a guy passed out in the bar bathroom with a black eye and no pants—and then turned on his heel, hands back in his coat pockets.
"Rest easy, big guy," he muttered. "You've been through enough."
He continued wandering through the scrapyard-turned-beachside junk heap, scanning the landscape until he finally found what he was looking for—a relatively flat rock sticking out just above the sand, wide and level enough for footwork and sword drills. Like a natural little stage built just for him.
He nodded in approval. "Alright. This'll do."
This, after all, was why he came here—not to gawk at Garp's punching therapy project, but to find somewhere quiet to train. Somewhere without distractions. Somewhere without angry old men banging on his door every time he so much as breathed too enthusiastically.
Yeah, apparently the house next to his was occupied by a senior Marine who believed silence was the natural state of the universe. Gale had barely dropped a mug once—once—and within seconds, the guy had been at his door in a bathrobe like some vengeful spirit summoned by noise complaints.
So, yeah. This place? This lonely little corner of rusted metal and crashing waves? This was peace.
He hopped up onto the rock and let the sea breeze wash over him, tugging lightly at his cloak. He rolled his shoulders, reached under the dark fabric, and slowly unsheathed his rapier with the kind of deliberate care that always made him feel like a character in a way-too-serious movie.
He took a deep breath. The scent of salt, steel, and rust filled his nose.
Then, eyes closed, he shifted his stance—left foot forward, knees bent, toes turning outward into the beginning of a slow, smooth circle.
One hand remained tucked beneath the cloak slung across his shoulder. The other raised the gleaming blade before him.
The movement began.
He slashed forward, then thrust, stepping lightly as he turned. A twist of the wrist, a pivot of the hip. Thrust again. Slash. Slide.
An invisible opponent stood before him—silent, poised, lethal.
And Gale danced.
This was routine now. Muscle memory. Breath in, breath out. His feet moved like he was gliding across water, sword flashing through the air in precise, elegant arcs.
Even as his body moved, his mind drifted.
Two more weeks left of sharpshooting and navigation… and then two months of leadership courses. Leadership. What even was that course going to be? PowerPoint lectures on how not to shout at subordinates?
A practical exam on giving inspiring speeches without sounding like a total jackass?
He sighed and flicked his rapier out in a mock finishing blow.
He had no intention of getting rusty in the meantime. His aim was still only slightly better than a drunk raccoon, and he still got lost on Marineford's lower levels at least twice a week. But when it came to the sword? This, he could control. This, he could rely on.
The rapier sang through the air again, the steel humming with the kind of crisp finality that always gave him a weird sense of calm.
Swordsmanship was simple. Clean. Predictable.
Unlike Garp.
Or Poqin.
Or Marineford in general.
He huffed out a breath, coming to a stop as the sun dipped lower. The ocean waves clapped gently against the shore behind him.
Yeah. He'd keep training. Keep improving. He might be surrounded by chaos, gods of war, and alcoholic monks—but at least here, on this rock, with his blade in hand and the wind at his back, things made sense.
For now.
...
Six ceramic dishes flew through the air like seagulls fleeing a cannon blast.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
One after another, they shattered into dust and shards, raining down like confetti at a very weird wedding.
Gale lowered his revolver, smoke curling from the barrel as he exhaled—slow, steady, trying his best to look composed. Like this was just another day of being mildly competent.
He watched the remains of the plates tumble into the sand and felt a twitch in his fingers.
Just one more shot. He could reload and pick off the fragments midair. That'd be badass. Stylish. Possibly the kind of thing that'd land him on a recruitment poster.
...Or, more likely, he'd miss all six pieces, jam the cylinder, and accidentally shoot himself in the boot.
"...Yeah, no thanks," he muttered, holstering the revolver before he gave into temptation. "Let's quit while I'm ahead."
Barely ahead.
His talent for sharpshooting had proven to be... let's call it 'selective.' As in, it only worked under highly specific conditions, such as when the moon was in the right phase and he'd bribed the gods with enough sarcastic suffering.
Honestly, if he hadn't cut into his sword practice hours to squeeze in extra target drills at the scrapyard, he wouldn't have even hit four out of the six plates—let alone all of them.
At first, he couldn't even hit one unless it was nailed to the wall and politely asked not to move.
But this wasn't about perfection. He wasn't aiming to be the King of Snipers. That title could stay with the weirdos who spent five hours polishing their scopes and whispering sweet nothings to their rifles.
No, all Gale needed was a reliable long-range option in a fight. Something to fall back on when stabbing wasn't an option—which, tragically, was more often than he'd like.
This world had too many flying people, long-range lunatics, and absurd devil fruit powers. Sometimes a man just needed to shoot something.
Could he improve more? Probably.
Would he?
...Nah.
He already had Florencio's sword style to master, and that was enough of a full-time job. Gale had zero interest in becoming some juggler of skills—jack of all trades, master of none. That just sounded like a fancy way of saying "average at everything, good at nothing, and constantly exhausted."
His focus was the sword. The revolver? That was just a backup plan.
A stylish, smoky backup plan.
"Not bad," Rika said, arms crossed as she chewed on a piece of mint gum like a drill sergeant who moonlighted as a bartender. "You hit all six. That's a passing grade."
Gale gave her a short, two-finger salute. "Guess I'm officially mediocre now."
She smirked. "You don't have to come back anymore. Unless you want extra training."
"Mm," Gale said, already turning around. "I think I'll preserve the mystery and leave it at 'acceptable.'"
"Suit yourself, cowboy."
He made his exit, holstering his revolver and resisting the urge to throw it in the ocean out of spite. It had gotten better… but not without making him question his eyesight, hand-eye coordination, and general worth as a person.
Still, a pass was a pass. One less thing to worry about.
Unfortunately, the next thing on his schedule was something to worry about.
Navigation class.
Today was the final exam. The written kind. With pens, and papers, and questions like "What's the wind pressure ratio between the Calm Belt and Reverse Mountain during a lunar eclipse?"
He sighed loudly.
Who made these tests? Was this even useful? Why were clouds made of lava sometimes? Why did the Grand Line have seasonal moods like an angsty teen?
As he trudged toward the classroom, he muttered, "If this exam's got math on it, I'm going to punch a cloud."
And knowing this world?
The cloud might punch back.
...
Somewhere on the training grounds, a muffled thud echoed.
Then another.
Then several more in rapid succession, followed by the unmistakable "AAAAAUGH MY BACK!!" of a grown man realizing his spine had made a poor life decision.
Gale, passing by the arena on his way to the navigation class, paused. He heard a war cry—guttural, full of joy, and suspiciously drunk.
He sighed. "Let me guess..."
Inside the ring, the scene looked like someone had shaken a bar fight into a blender. The instructor—big, burly, twice Poqin's size—was lying flat on his back, twitching. Around him, four students groaned on the ground, clutching various parts of themselves and questioning their career choices.
Standing above them all, arms outstretched like he was basking in divine light, was Poqin.
Grinning.
Covered in bruises, sweat, and what might've been barbecue sauce.
"WELL," he announced, cracking his knuckles like fireworks, "I believe that concludes the 'Hands-On Learning Experience.'"
"You were only supposed to spar!" one of the downed students wheezed.
Poqin crouched beside him and patted his shoulder like an old friend. "And spar, we did! We shared fists, exchanged feelings, made some memories—look at you! You're a better man now. Mostly broken, but better."
The instructor tried to lift his head. "You... passed... ten minutes ago, you... bastard..."
"True," Poqin said with a sage nod. "But you see, sensei, the course said 'Hand-to-hand proficiency.' It didn't say 'Hand-to-one-hand-and-stop-there.' Gotta go the extra mile."
The instructor's head thunked back down with a groan.
Poqin dusted off his monk robes—ripped in places, possibly self-inflicted—and strolled out of the ring like he was leaving a successful sermon.
That's when he spotted Gale watching from the sidelines.
"GAAAAALE, MY DEAR FRIEND!" he called, arms flung wide. "I HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH THE POWER OF FISTS AND LEGAL IMMUNITY! ONWARD, TO THE SEA!"
Gale blinked. "Aren't you heading to ship steering?"
"Exactly! For what is a helm," Poqin said, dramatically holding up a training wheel he'd somehow stolen, "if not a punch you give to the ocean?!"
"That's not even close to what steering means."
Poqin leaned in with a mock-whisper. "That's what the ocean wants you to think."
Gale stepped aside as Poqin strutted past him, whistling and twirling the wheel like it owed him money.
Watching him go, Gale rubbed his temples.
Poqin had single-handedly fought his instructor, half the class, and possibly gravity. And he still had enough energy left over to commit maritime crimes.
"Y'know," Gale muttered to himself, "I don't know if he's ever sober or just permanently possessed by the spirit of chaos."
He looked back into the training ring, where the instructor was trying to sit up with the help of a medical intern and a mop.
"...Nope," Gale said, turning away. "Not my problem. I've got clouds to punch."