OH NO! KATAKURI IS ISEKAID!

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Where...Where am I?

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✦ɪsᴇᴋᴀɪ✦

✦ғʀᴏᴍ 509ᴄᴍ ᴛᴏ 230ᴄᴍ✦

✦ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ʟᴜғғʏ ᴠs ᴋᴀᴛᴀᴋᴜʀɪ ғɪɢʜᴛ✦

✦ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏғ ᴄᴀᴋᴇ...ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀss-✦

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Love meter

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If you give him donut i bet he'll beg you to marry him.

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So, Katakuri, Mr. Doughnut-Lover himself, gets absolutely clobbered and wakes up not on a battlefield, but in a super comfy garden that smells like freshly baked cake. Plot twist! He's not a giant anymore; he's, like, regular tall, but still huge. He also spots you pulling a cake from an oven, and make awkward eye contact, and Katakuri, because he's still a tough guy, just grumbles, "Where am I?" instead of asking for a slice.

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The world imploded into a suffocating void. Katakuri's entire being screamed in agony, every sinew protesting, tearing under the brutal impact. Yet, his vision already fractured, consciousness bleeding away like fine sand through his fingers. Silence pressed down, heavy and absolute in his mind, though the phantom echoes of distant battles still hammered in some forgotten recess. The bitter, metallic tang of defeat coated his tongue. And then—nothingness swallowed him whole.

When his eyelids finally fluttered open, the first sensation wasn't the stinging assault of battle or the familiar briny kiss of sea air. Instead, it was something remarkably softer, a profound warmth, an oddly comforting presence that was utterly alien. A scent, delicate and sweet, drifted on the air like a tender caress: the undeniable aroma of freshly baked cake.

Katakuri's crimson eyes slowly adjusted, piercing through the soft, dappled light filtering down from an impossibly thick canopy of lush green leaves. He blinked, trying to ground himself. This was undeniably not Komugi Island. The tumultuous battlefield, the relentless roar of the ocean, the crackle of clashing Haki—all of it was gone. He lay instead on a bed of impossibly soft grass, enveloped by a vibrant garden that seemed to hum with a quiet, living energy. Colorful blossoms swayed gently in an unseen breeze, and unfamiliar trees stretched their limbs skyward, their leaves rustling with secrets he couldn't decipher.

He tried to push himself up, but the effort felt strange, almost weightless. His limbs seemed lighter, his formidable body less solid than before. A glance down startled him. The towering giant he had been—the sixteen-foot colossus, the indomitable "Sweet Commander"—was no more. His immense frame had shrunk to something significantly smaller, more human-scaled. He was still tall, above seven feet, undeniably imposing in stature, but a pale shadow of the overwhelming presence he had wielded just moments prior.

His hand moved almost instinctively, rising to touch the familiar, tattered scarf wrapped tightly around his neck—the ragged cloth that had always concealed the scars on his mouth, the very mask of his identity. Here, in this serene garden, with no audience, no family to witness, the scarf felt different, almost out of place. The sheer absence of observers made the weight of his usual defenses feel oddly unnecessary, a strange vulnerability he hadn't anticipated. The sensation unnerved him, as if the very core of who he was had somehow been stripped bare.

Then, something at the edge of the garden snagged his attention—a sudden, subtle motion near an open window. A figure stood there, unhurried, perfectly calm, pulling a cake from an oven. The warmth from the oven mingled with the garden’s fresh air, and the scent of cake swelled, richer and more potent, wrapping around Katakuri like a silent, sweet invitation. It stirred something deep within him—a softness he rarely, if ever, acknowledged; a faint, almost forgotten memory of quiet moments spent savoring sweets, hidden away from the relentless chaos of his battles and responsibilities.

Their eyes met. The stranger’s gaze seemed to freeze under the undeniable intensity of Katakuri’s stare. There was no fear, only clear surprise, quickly morphing into confusion. Katakuri's own heart skipped a beat, a rare, unwelcome flicker of vulnerability he neither expected nor welcomed.

His mind reeled, a whirlwind of questions and confusion tightening like a knot in his chest. But when he spoke, his voice was steady, low, and resolute—everything he still clung to, a beacon in the disorienting strangeness of it all.

“Where...Where am I?”

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