Gale couldn't help but find the whole situation just a little bit hilarious in a cosmic, "the universe is clearly messing with me" kind of way. Commodore Rigg, for all his gruff charm, always struck him as the kind of man who'd charge into a battlefield shirtless if the mood struck.
The fact that Rigg had apparently stood by while a gladiator—and whoever was helping him—kicked a sitting king off his throne? That was so off-brand it looped back around into being perfectly in character.
No wonder the brass booted him to G-5, the Marines' equivalent of throwing someone into the attic and hoping they don't burn the place down.
Still, Gale had to admit, this little soap opera had absolutely nothing to do with him. The only way it affected his life was that his fast-pass recommendation was now null and void—crumpled up and tossed in the same corner of history as the former King of Centaurea.
That sucked. Because now, instead of skipping the line, he was looking at starting from the bottom like everyone else. Joy.
He sighed, long and dramatic, and gave Commodore Sicily the most put-upon look he could muster without actually collapsing onto the floor.
"So… I guess that means I have to start as a private. Please tell me that doesn't involve cleaning floors or some other tragic abuse of my time and talents."
Beside him, Poqin was already biting back a grin, eyes twinkling with barely restrained amusement.
Gale could practically hear the gears turning in his friend's head—probably visualizing Gale, mop in hand, dramatically lamenting his fate while slipping on soap like some tragic prince of janitorial duty.
The image must've been hilarious, because Poqin looked like he was ready to sell tickets.
Sicily, for his part, didn't crack a smile. The commodore just gave Gale one of those calm, steady looks that older authority figures used when they were trying to gauge whether you were a genius, an idiot, or some tragic hybrid of both.
Then he shook his head. "Rigg's recommendation may not mean much anymore," he said, voice low and even, "but the fact that he gave one at all tells me he saw something in you."
"Hopefully not my winning smile," Gale muttered.
Sicily ignored him. "So you're going to show me that same something. Impress me, and I'll write you a recommendation myself."
That gave Gale pause. He eyed the commodore suspiciously, arms folding across his chest like a kid being told to eat broccoli and apologize for something he only technically did.
"Okay, but you're not gonna ask me to slay some mythical beast or fetch a glowing golden artifact or something, right? 'Cause I left my enchanted spear and lion-slaying boots at home."
Sicily blinked. "I don't know what any of that means."
Gale sighed again. "Figures."
"You just have to fight me," Sicily said plainly.
That brought everything to a screeching halt. Gale raised both brows, unsure if he'd misheard or if the commodore had just casually challenged him to a duel like they were two samurai in a spaghetti western. "I'm sorry, did you just say fight you? As in, punch-punch, sword-swing, possibly explode through a wall you?"
"That's right."
"Okay, cool, cool." Gale turned to Poqin and whispered, "Is this normal? Like, I know I'm new to the whole military-industrial complex thing, but are spontaneous boss fights part of the recruitment process?"
Poqin just shrugged, which was not helpful at all.
Sicily rose from his desk, rolling back his shoulders like he was already loosening up. "If you want the fast track, you have to prove you can handle it. Words won't cut it, boy"
Gale's mouth twisted as he considered that. On one hand, this was clearly absurd. On the other, a weird part of him—the one that liked high-stakes drama and having a reason to be shirtless in public—was kind of into it.
"Well," Gale said, cracking his knuckles and flashing a crooked grin, "at least I won't be mopping any floors."
He looked at Sicily with narrowed eyes and muttered in a barely audible voice, "Unless you count the one I'm about to wipe with your ass..."
"What was that?"
"What? I didn't say anything..."
...
The Marine training grounds weren't anything fancy—just a big open lot with some sand, worn-down dummies, and scorch marks that suggested at least one previous occupant had a very creative interpretation of the term "sparring." Gale stepped out onto the field behind Commodore Sicily, squinting at the overhead sun.
The air was hot, the ground dry, and the mood? Well, about five seconds away from someone getting humbled.
Sicily didn't waste any time. He tossed aside his Marine coat like he was in a dramatic stage play, letting it drift through the air before landing with an authoritative flap.
The guy wasn't bulky, not by a long shot—lean, wiry, a little older—but he had that calm, unshakable presence of someone who didn't need to flex to be terrifying.
His sword slid from its sheath with a clean metallic hiss, and for a moment, it felt like the temperature dropped a few degrees. Maybe it was intimidation, or maybe Gale was just imagining it.
Either way, the commodore raised his blade and said, perfectly composed, "I'll stand right here. If you can make me take even one step back, I'll write you that recommendation myself."
Gale blinked. "Oh great. One of these guys."
He looked at Sicily with twitching eyes, already getting unpleasant flashbacks of a certain flamboyant mentor with a fondness for poetry and roundhouse kicks. "Who does this guy think he is? Florencio?"
It was honestly kind of insulting. After everything he'd gone through—the humiliations, the footwork drills, the surprise roses to the face—he'd earned the right to not be tossed around like a ragdoll by anyone else.
And now this smug Marine with a sword was giving him déjà vu.
"Is that so?" Gale asked sweetly, unsheathing his rapier with a crisp shiiing. The blade caught the sunlight, gleaming like it knew it was about to be in a story worth telling. It was the same weapon Kiwanu had given him—sleek, sharp, and reliable.
Florencio's sword and cloak rested back in the inn, untouched. Not because he didn't want to use them, but because… well, he wasn't there yet. Not until he earned it.
He unclasped his travel cloak, letting it hang lazily off his shoulder. "Please go easy on me," he added with a smile that was far too innocent to be trusted.
Sicily's mouth opened—probably to issue some classic pre-battle warning like You'll regret this or Try not to cry—but he never got the chance.
Because Gale vanished.
The air where he'd been shimmered slightly, dust swirling in his wake. He lightened his body's density, turning into a blur, the kind of move that made people squint and question whether they were having a heatstroke.
In an instant, he was in front of Sicily, rapier lancing forward with deadly precision, aiming straight for the commodore's chest.
To Sicily's credit, he didn't flinch. His sword arm moved with practiced grace, deflecting the strike with a sharp clang that echoed through the field. But that was only the warm-up.
Gale grinned.
As their blades clashed, Gale twisted his body and grabbed the edge of his hanging cloak. With a quick mental command, he cranked up its density, turning the light fabric into something closer to a sack of bricks. He hurled it upward—WHUMP—right into Sicily's face.
The commodore staggered, eyes disappearing beneath a very fashionable, very absurdly heavy piece of cloth. From a distance, it looked like a confused bull had charged into a curtain.
Sicily grunted and tried to tear the thing off, but Gale wasn't done. He dipped low, sweeping his leg toward the commodore's boots. A proper Florencio-style flourish might've added a pirouette or a rose petal flourish, but Gale was here for results, not choreography.
Sicily's feet left the ground in a tangle of limbs and fabric, and down he went—thud, flat on his back like someone who just remembered their taxes were due. By the time he yanked the cloak free and sat up, he found Gale standing calmly in front of him, rapier leveled, the tip hovering inches from the commodore's nose.
Gale tilted his head, offering a charming little smile. "Does this count as one step back?"
Sicily looked at him. Then at the sword. Then back at him.
"…you brat... fine, you win..."
Gale sheathed his rapier with a casual flick and offered his hand to the commodore, who was still blinking away the confusion (and possibly the weight of dignity lost under a very, very heavy cloak).
Sicily eyed the hand like it might suddenly turn into a second sword, but after a long sigh that sounded more "tired father of three" than "Marine officer," he accepted and let Gale help him to his feet.
"Sorry about the uniform," Gale said with a straight face, looking at the commodore's clothes that now needed a thorough dusting and possibly dry cleaning. "I'll pay for the laundry..."
Sicily grunted, brushing sand from his uniform. "You fight dirty."
"I fight creatively."
"Same thing."
As Sicily dusted himself off and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "I miss paperwork," Gale turned to Poqin, who had been watching the whole match from the edge of the training ground, arms crossed, expression somewhere between mild interest and Zen amusement.
"Hey," Gale called out, waving him over. "Since we're already here… how about you test my friend too?"
Poqin perked up, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I was starting to wonder if you'd forgotten about me. Honestly, I was feeling a little neglected."
Sicily looked from Gale to Poqin and then back to Gale again with a narrowed gaze, the kind of look you gave a sealed box labeled Definitely Not a Bomb.
"And how strong is he, exactly?" he asked warily. "As good as you?"
Gale scratched the back of his head, considering that for a moment. "Hard to say. I've never fought him seriously. But… yeah, he should be pretty strong."
There was a brief silence. Then Sicily groaned and rubbed his temples like someone just reminded him tomorrow was inspection day and tax audit day.
"You know what? Never mind. I'll take your word for it," he said quickly, waving a hand like he was shooing away a particularly muscular pigeon. "Double recommendation. Done. I don't get paid enough to gamble with my spine."
Poqin chuckled, stepping forward and pressing his palms together in a serene gesture, head bowed slightly.
"The commodore's wisdom shines like the morning sun," he said, sounding—for once—like an actual monk. Then he winked at Gale. "Also, I didn't really feel like moving today."
Gale rolled his eyes. "You're so lazy it borders on spiritual enlightenment."
Sicily looked between the two of them and muttered, "This island attracts the weirdest people."
...
The next day…
Gale was back at it, standing barefoot in the middle of the training grounds with his boots discarded on the edge and a growing sense of frustration welling up in his chest. He was trying—again—to nail the footwork technique from one of Florencio's manuals.
It didn't have a name, not one written in the pages anyway, but if Gale had to label it, he'd probably call it something like Ghost Waltz or Disappearing Dad Step™.
Basically, it was that flashy foot mojo—the kind where you vanish from sight, reappear behind someone, and leave them wondering if they'd accidentally skipped a few seconds of reality.
It was cool. That was reason number one he wanted to learn it. He didn't even pretend otherwise. But deeper down, he knew that wasn't the only reason.
The day after the duel, Sicily had gone through with his word and written the recommendations. They'd been sent to Marine HQ already. Now, all they could do was wait—and Gale had never been good at waiting.
So instead, he trained. He practiced. He read and re-read the handwritten notes Florencio had left him in those leather-bound manuals, flipping through diagrams and foot positioning charts that sometimes included cryptic annotations like "move like love has betrayed you" or "don't step on the rose, become the rose."
Yeah. Very Florencio.
The funny thing was, Gale already had a way to mimic those high-speed movement techniques. By lowering his density—except for his muscles—he could create a Soru-like effect, darting forward with explosive speed.
It worked, and it looked flashy, but it wasn't the same. This technique—Florencio's technique—was different. It had a rhythm, a grace.
It wasn't just about going fast; it was about how you moved, when you vanished, when you reappeared, and what kind of message you left behind. Which, in Florencio's case, usually involved roses and emotional trauma.
And even if he didn't need this technique, Gale wanted it. Wanted to honor the man who taught him. To master the things he left behind. To earn the right to use the sword and cloak that were still neatly folded in his room, untouched.
Besides, if he could combine this technique with his Devil Fruit powers—decrease his weight to boost his step, then increase it to add extra punch on arrival—he might just be able to double the effects of both. That wasn't just cool. That was terrifyingly cool.
He narrowed his eyes, crouched into position again, and took a deep breath.
"Alright, Maestro," he muttered. "Show me how to dance."
And with that, he vanished again.
...
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