The sun was shining like it was getting paid overtime, and the air on Torino Island carried that familiar scent of ripe fruit, humid leaves, and faint chemical smoke—probably from one of Kiwanu's unauthorized experiments. Again.
Outside his lopsided, gear-covered workshop, the eccentric old scientist was settled comfortably on a wooden stool that had definitely seen better days. A patched umbrella shaded his head, his goggles were perched lazily on his forehead, and in his hands was today's prize: a slightly crumpled, half-banana-stained newspaper.
Next to him, leaning against the wall, was a ridiculous contraption shaped vaguely like a trombone if it had been built by someone with zero musical talent and a deep love of potassium. The label on it read: "Banana Launcher Mk II: Now With Less Internal Combustion!"
Kiwanu hummed to himself, adjusting his reading glasses with a pair of tweezers. "Let's see what those nutjobs outside this island are screaming about today…"
"Since when are you subscribed to a newspaper?" came a voice from the path.
Shanba, one of the village's more level-headed warriors, raised an eyebrow as he approached, carrying a bundle of fresh herbs. His face was already skeptical and not hiding it.
Kiwanu didn't even look up. "Subscribed? Please. I shot down a News Coo." He gave the paper a satisfied pat. "Needed a live test subject for the banana launcher. Two birds with one banana." He snorted at his own joke.
"...You shot a News Coo?" Shanba stared at him, equal parts horrified and resigned.
"It's fine, it crash-landed in a soft bush. Probably. Not my problem. The paper survived. And the launcher didn't explode this time, so that's progress."
"Right…" Shanba rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But why do you care about the outside world's news? You once called it a 'spiraling meat grinder fueled by ambition and bad fashion.'"
"I stand by that assessment," Kiwanu said, flipping a page, "but when Gale left, he said he'd stay out of trouble."
Shanba blinked. "...And?"
"And I didn't believe him," Kiwanu said, matter-of-fact. "So now I'm trying to prove myself right."
The younger man laughed. "Come on, this is Gale we're talking about. He gets flustered when someone offers him a discount too aggressively. If something even smells like trouble, he'd sprint the other way."
Kiwanu side-eyed him. "Want to bet on it?"
Shanba grinned. "Gladly."
The old man grunted and held the paper up, scanning through the pages with laser focus. Page one: some pirate blew up a tavern. Page two: a new Warlord candidate was under review. Page three: Garp doing Garp things. Page four: nothing.
Shanba smirked. "Told you. The kid's probably fishing somewhere, scared to touch a crab in case it sues him."
Kiwanu grumbled. "I swear if he went off and became a monk—"
But just as he was about to fold the paper in frustration, something caught his eye on the very last page.
A headline. Small. Tucked into the corner like a secret waiting to be found.
"Mysterious Warrior 'Bayle' Defeats Centaurea's Champion in Arena Duel"
Beneath the headline, nestled in the corner of the page like it was embarrassed to be there, was a sketch of the mysterious "Bayle" in question.
The man in the drawing wore a sleek, unfamiliar black outfit—part sleek mercenary, part "found this in a Halloween clearance bin." A dragon-shaped mask covered his face, stylized and intimidating… or at least it would've been, if not for the fact that he was scratching the side of his face with his middle finger.
Directly at the artist.
The pose was either accidental or the most passive-aggressive portrait in newspaper history.
Kiwanu stared at it for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and howling with laughter. "BAHAHA! Oh, you've gotta be kidding me! Shanba! Look and WEEP!"
Shanba leaned in with a frown, eyes narrowing as he took in the picture. "That's just—some weirdo in a bad disguise. Who wears a dragon mask to an arena fight? What's next, a chicken-themed cape?"
He scoffed. "And the name! Bayle? Come on. Gale wouldn't be stupid enough to pick something that sounds like he just coughed while saying his real name."
"Apparently," Kiwanu said, wiping a tear from his eye, "he absolutely is."
He tapped the paper again, this time pointing at a finer detail: hanging off the man's belt was a slender, curved rapier with a peculiar spiral crossguard and a turquoise ribbon tied around the hilt.
"That," Kiwanu said, jabbing his finger at it like it had personally wronged him, "is exactly the same rapier Gale picked. I recognize that ridiculous ribbon."
Shanba's eyes narrowed. "Could be coincidence. Rapiers are common."
"No, they aren't... especially not with turquoise ribbons?"
"…Maybe he stole it?"
"Oh now you're reaching."
...
Gale was dreaming of something peaceful—probably food-related—when the unmistakable THUD THUD THUD of heavy boots above his head jolted him awake.
"—BY ORDER OF THE MARINE COMMAND! DROP ANCHOR AND PREPARE FOR INSPECTION!"
He blinked at the ceiling of his tiny cabin aboard the Jackdaw, groggy and confused. Was that yelling? Are we under attack again? Pirates? Sea kings? Sea clowns?
Still rubbing sleep from his eyes, Gale rolled out of bed with all the grace of a hungover sloth, nearly tripping over his boots as he staggered to the door.
"Great," he muttered, "just what I needed. Morning cardio with a side of existential dread."
Climbing up to the upper deck, he squinted against the early sun and took in the chaos. Uniformed Marines swarmed the deck like ants at a picnic, while the Jackdaw's crew stood around looking vaguely offended.
He spotted Jack, the ship's captain and resident "permanently tired dad" figure, shouting at a nearby crewman to stop trying to bribe the Marines with dried mango.
Gale jogged up to him. "Jack! What's going on? Are we being arrested or are they just very enthusiastic about tax season?"
Jack looked at him, half-exasperated, half-confused. "I don't know. They just appeared outta nowhere, flagged us down, told us to raise sails and drop anchor. Didn't give a reason."
Gale scratched his head, frowning. "That's… uncomfortably vague."
"Tell me about it," Jack muttered, watching as a group of Marines disembarked from their ship and stepped onto the deck.
The lead officer stood out immediately: tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably clean uniform, and that "I'm too old for this crap" scowl permanently etched into his face. He carried himself with all the stiffness of someone who alphabetizes their spices and yells at clouds.
"Attention, civilians!" the man barked. "I am Commodore Sicily of the Marine Forces. I am currently tracking a dangerous fugitive and war criminal, and I will be inspecting your ship to ensure he is not aboard."
Gale froze mid-yawn, eyebrow twitching. Sicily…?
The name didn't ring a bell right away, but the guy's face definitely did. Something about it screamed "cameo character." He was ninety percent sure he'd seen this guy somewhere in the anime. Or maybe the manga. Or maybe both? Was he the guy who got punched by Luffy? Or was he kicked by Luffy?
Too many episodes.
He decided not to think too hard about it. Let the plot play out. It's not like he was the wanted criminal, right?
(Right?)
As the Marines began sweeping through the lower decks, opening barrels and poking at crates with the business end of their rifles, Jack crossed his arms and walked up to Sicily. "So, who exactly are you looking for, Commodore?"
Sicily didn't blink. "A rogue naval officer turned war criminal. Name's Suleiman the Beheader."
That got Gale's attention.
'Wait a second… I know that name.'
His eyes widened slightly. 'Suleiman… yeah, he's a fighter from Dressrosa's coliseum tournament. The one with the cool sword and the whole 'I'm edgy and I wear a cape indoors' vibe.'
He glanced sideways, just to make sure no one was looking at him suspiciously, then resumed yawning like he hadn't just connected the dots between this manhunt and major canon events.
'Still not my circus, not my sea monkeys.'
He shuffled off to the side and leaned against a crate, arms folded, face the picture of lazy indifference. He even pulled out a piece of fruit from his pocket—he wasn't sure what it was, it might've been a tomato or a very confused apple—and took a bite.
The search didn't take long. The Jackdaw was a merchant ship, not a rogue's hideout. Within ten minutes, the Marines gave the all-clear and began filing back to their ship.
Sicily gave a final curt nod. "Thank you for your cooperation. Stay out of trouble."
Jack gave a sarcastic salute. "We always do."
Gale waved lazily with the hand holding the maybe-tomato. "Thanks for the wake-up call. Next time, just send a postcard."
And with that, the Marine ship pulled away, and the Jackdaw was free to resume its voyage.
Gale watched them fade into the distance, chewing thoughtfully.
'Suleiman, huh… wonder what's got him running from the Marines. Well, good luck with that, buddy. Hope you're not planning to board this ship. We're fresh out of patience and cookies.'
He stretched, let out one final yawn, and wandered back below deck, already planning to go back to bed.
...
After a few long, surprisingly uneventful days at sea — minus that one incident with the flying fish and Jack's catastrophic attempt at fishing — the Jackdaw finally drifted into port.
Gale leaned over the ship's railing, eyes lighting up as the vibrant sprawl of Karate Island came into view.
The docks were bustling with life. Merchants shouted over one another, waving banners advertising "World-Famous Healing Salves!" and "Authentic Black Belt Certification — 50% Off!" Martial artists in gis strolled around like it was the most normal thing in the world, some with black belts so worn they looked like they'd been through a woodchipper.
Others paraded around in boxing shorts and gloves, shadowboxing the air as if expecting a random boss fight to pop out of a fruit cart.
It was loud, colorful, and chaotic—and Gale absolutely loved it.
'Finally,' he thought, 'a place where walking around shirtless and kicking things is considered a valid career path.'
Jack, standing nearby with his arms crossed, followed Gale's gaze and chuckled. "Well, kid, we made it. The famous Karate Island."
Gale tore his eyes off the madness long enough to ask, "How long are we planning to stay here?"
Jack scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Few days, maybe more. Depends on how fast we offload the cargo. Why? Planning to hitch another ride?"
Gale shrugged, hands stuffed casually into his pockets. "Not sure yet. Gonna look around first. See if there's anything here worth learning." He glanced back at the crowds with a grin. "Place does look like a giant dojo theme park."
Jack laughed, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to almost knock him off-balance. "Heh. Then this is probably goodbye, huh?"
"Maybe," Gale said, smirking. He turned to leave, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder. "I'll see you around... if it's meant to be, I guess...."
Jack just chuckled, already barking orders at his exhausted crew to start unloading crates. Gale didn't miss the way one sailor nearly dropped a barrel on his own foot.
Typical.
He didn't get far — maybe twenty steps down the dock — before someone called out to him.
"Hey, you! New guy!"
Gale turned to find a young man standing there, maybe his own age, wearing simple brown robes tied with a faded blue sash. His shaved head gleamed in the sun, but there was an easy, mischievous grin on his face that made him look less "wise monk" and more "guy who definitely knows a hundred different ways to cheat at cards."
The monk jogged over, hands clasped behind his head. "You're new here, right? I can tell. You've got that 'I have no idea where I'm going aura about you."
Gale arched an eyebrow. "Wow. Sharp. You one of those fortune-telling monks?"
"Nah," the monk laughed. "I just people-watch a lot. Anyway, if you want, I can show you around a bit. In exchange for some skewers and a drink from a stall I know. Fair trade?"
Gale blinked. "Wait, hold up. A monk asking for booze and meat? Isn't that... against the rules?"
The monk put a hand on his chest and said, with a straight face, "My spirit aspires to the Buddha... but my stomach is very much still of this world."
Gale barked out a laugh. "Yeah. I have a feeling we're gonna get along just fine." He stuck out his hand. "Name's Harlow Gale. Just Gale's fine, though."
The monk grinned and shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you, Gale. Name's Poqin."
"Poqin, huh?" Gale repeated, grinning as he pocketed his hands again. "Alright, Boqin. Lead the way. Just… try not to sell me into slavery or anything."
Poqin laughed. "No promises. Skewers first, life decisions later."
And with that, the two disappeared into the colorful madness of Karate Island, the smell of grilled meat and fresh adventure hanging thick in the air.
...
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