Gary Henderson was having what could only be described as the most monumentally average Tuesday of his entire thirty-two years of existence.
He had woken up at precisely 6:47 AM—thirteen minutes before his alarm, which was somehow worse than not getting enough sleep at all. He had brushed his teeth with the enthusiasm of a man who had done this approximately eleven thousand six hundred and eighty times before and would likely do it eleven thousand more times before his teeth fell out from his secret gummy bear addiction.
His apartment was the kind of bachelor pad that screamed "I have given up on impressing anyone, including myself." There were exactly three posters on his walls: one of a sunset that came with the frame, one anime poster he'd bought ironically and now loved unironically, and one motivational poster that said "HANG IN THERE" with a cat that looked like it had seen the void and the void had blinked first.
Gary worked in data entry. Not exciting data entry, if such a thing even existed. He entered numbers into spreadsheets. The numbers meant something to someone, presumably, but Gary had long since stopped caring what. He was a cog in a machine, and not even an important cog. He was the cog that other cogs forgot existed until the machine made a weird noise and someone had to figure out which cog was slightly off-center.
His cubicle was decorated with exactly one personal item: a small plastic cactus that someone had given him as a joke three years ago. Gary had kept it because he appreciated the symbolism. Like him, it required nothing, contributed nothing, and would persist long after everyone stopped caring about its existence.
His coworkers didn't dislike him. That would have required them to feel something about him at all. Gary existed in that perfect social blind spot where people would nod at him in the hallway and then immediately forget they'd seen anyone. He was the human equivalent of elevator music—technically present, fundamentally ignorable.
His lunch that fateful Tuesday consisted of a ham sandwich—plain, because Gary had the culinary creativity of a boiled potato—a bag of chips that advertised itself as "family sized" that Gary would absolutely finish by himself, and a soda that was slowly dissolving his internal organs with the patience of a Buddhist monk.
He ate alone, as always, scrolling through his phone and reading One Piece fan theories because he had nothing better to do. Someone had posted a detailed analysis of Katakuri's fighting style and how it compared to other top-tier combatants. Gary had opinions about this. Strong opinions. He would never share them with anyone because that would require social interaction, but he had them nonetheless.
The afternoon passed in a blur of spreadsheets, passive-aggressive emails from Karen in accounting (why was it always a Karen in accounting?), and the slow, creeping existential dread that this was it. This was his life. This was all there would ever be.
At 5:17 PM, Gary left work. He walked to his car—a 2009 Honda Civic that had seen better days, decades, and possibly centuries. The check engine light had been on for so long that Gary had simply accepted it as a permanent feature, like a third headlight that did nothing but judge him.
He stopped at a convenience store because he was out of instant ramen, which was basically a food group for him at this point. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like mechanical bees having an existential crisis. The floor was that particular shade of tile that existed only in convenience stores and hospitals, designed specifically to make you question your life choices.
Gary grabbed three cups of instant ramen (shrimp flavor, because he was a man of culture), a package of those mini donuts that were definitely going to subtract years from his life, and on a whim, a lottery ticket. He never won anything, but hope was a disease that infected even the most cynical souls.
The teenager behind the counter looked at him with the dead eyes of someone who had checked out of reality approximately three hours into their first shift and never checked back in. They exchanged no words. Gary paid. The transaction was completed with all the warmth of a glacier having a bad day.
And then Gary stepped outside.
The truck came out of nowhere.
Well, technically it came out of the parking lot of the taco place next door, driven by a man who had consumed four margaritas and believed wholeheartedly that he was "totally fine to drive, bro." But to Gary, it came out of nowhere.
One moment he was walking toward his sad little Civic, ramen clutched to his chest like precious treasure. The next moment, there was a blaring horn, a flash of chrome, and then—
Splat.
It wasn't even a dramatic splat. It was the kind of splat that made people wince and look away, not because it was horrifying, but because it was so profoundly embarrassing. Gary Henderson, thirty-two years old, killed by a taco truck while holding instant ramen.
The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor. A terrible, awful sense of humor.
Gary's last thought before the darkness took him was: "I never even scratched that lottery ticket."
And then there was nothing.
The nothing lasted for what felt like both an eternity and a single heartbeat. Time had no meaning in the nothing. Gary floated in an endless expanse of darkness that was somehow both empty and oppressively full.
He couldn't feel his body, which made sense, given that his body was currently being scraped off a convenience store parking lot by a very traumatized emergency responder who was definitely going to need therapy.
But he could think. That was new. In all the religious teachings Gary had half-listened to during his sporadic church attendance (Christmas and Easter, like a proper lapsed Christian), nobody had mentioned that the afterlife would be this boring.
Is this purgatory? Gary thought. Did I not do enough good deeds? Did I not sin enough for hell? Am I in some kind of metaphysical waiting room?
If this was a waiting room, Gary wanted to speak to the manager. This was unacceptable. At least put some magazines out. Maybe a water cooler. Give a guy something to do while he waited for eternal judgment.
"GARY HENDERSON," a voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere.
Gary would have jumped if he had a body to jump with. Instead, his consciousness sort of vibrated with surprise.
Uh, yes? That's me?
"YOUR DEATH HAS BEEN RECORDED. YOUR LIFE IS BEING EVALUATED."
Okay, that sounds ominous. Can I get a preview? A trailer, maybe? I'm kind of nervous here.
There was a pause. The darkness somehow felt judgmental.
"YOU LIVED A LIFE OF EXTRAORDINARY... MEDIOCRITY."
Wow, okay, rude. But also fair.
"YOU HARMED NO ONE. YOU HELPED NO ONE. YOU EXISTED IN A STATE OF PERPETUAL NEUTRAL. YOU ARE THE HUMAN EQUIVALENT OF ROOM TEMPERATURE WATER."
I feel like you're really hammering this home. I get it. I was boring. Can we move on?
"THE COUNCIL HAS REVIEWED YOUR CASE. NORMALLY, SOULS OF YOUR... CALIBER... ARE SIMPLY RECYCLED INTO THE COSMIC FABRIC OF EXISTENCE. REINCARNATED AS SOMETHING SIMPLE. A ROCK, PERHAPS. A MILDLY UNCOMFORTABLE CHAIR."
I don't want to be a chair.
"HOWEVER, DUE TO A CLERICAL ERROR—"
Wait, what?
"—YOUR SOUL WAS FLAGGED FOR SPECIAL PROCESSING. WE HAVE ALREADY ALLOCATED RESOURCES. THE PAPERWORK HAS BEEN FILED. TO REVERSE THIS WOULD REQUIRE APPROXIMATELY SEVEN THOUSAND YEARS OF INTERDIMENSIONAL BUREAUCRACY."
I... what is happening right now?
"IN SHORT, GARY HENDERSON, YOU ARE GOING TO BE REINCARNATED INTO A WORLD NOT YOUR OWN. YOU WILL BE GRANTED A BODY OF CONSIDERABLE POWER. THIS IS NOT A REWARD. THIS IS BECAUSE SOMEONE IN COSMIC ACCOUNTING PUT YOUR FILE IN THE WRONG PILE AND WE'RE ALL JUST GOING WITH IT NOW."
Gary's consciousness reeled. This was a lot to process.
So I'm getting isekai'd? Like in those anime I definitely didn't spend three hundred hours watching instead of having a social life?
"WE DO NOT KNOW WHAT THAT WORD MEANS AND WE DO NOT CARE TO LEARN. YOU WILL BE SENT NOW. GOODBYE, GARY HENDERSON. TRY NOT TO DIE IMMEDIATELY. IT WOULD MAKE THE PAPERWORK EVEN MORE ANNOYING."
Wait, I have questions! What world? What body? What powers? Can I at least get a tutorial—
"NO."
And then Gary was falling.
Gary hit consciousness like a man hitting water after falling from a very high cliff—suddenly, painfully, and with the distinct sensation that something fundamental had changed about his relationship with physics.
He was lying on his back. That much he could tell. But the back he was lying on felt wrong. It was too long. Too wide. Too much back, if that made any sense. Which it didn't.
His eyes opened slowly, and the first thing he noticed was that everything was really, really far away.
No, wait. That wasn't right. Everything was a normal distance away. It was just that he was really, really high up.
Gary sat up.
And then kept sitting up.
And then kept sitting up some more.
He looked down at his hands and felt his brain short-circuit.
His hands were massive. Each finger was the size of a normal person's forearm. His palms were like dinner plates. His forearms were like tree trunks. His arms were like tree trunks that had been hitting the gym for several decades and possibly also taking supplements that were definitely not legal in professional sports.
"What the f—" Gary started to say, but the voice that came out of his mouth was not his voice. His voice had been a pleasant tenor, the kind of voice that was immediately forgettable. This voice was deep. This voice had bass. This voice had the kind of resonance that made you feel it in your chest. This voice could probably be heard from several miles away if he really put some effort into it.
Gary looked around frantically, trying to find a reflective surface. He was in a forest, which was inconvenient. Trees surrounded him on all sides, tall and ancient-looking, nothing like the manicured parks of his suburban existence.
But wait—there was a stream nearby. He could hear it bubbling. Gary stood up—
—and nearly fell over because standing took him about three times as long as it should have and left him approximately twelve feet in the air.
No. Higher than that.
He was over sixteen feet tall. Maybe closer to seventeen. It was hard to tell without a reference point, but Gary had been five foot nine in his previous life (five foot ten if he was lying to dating apps), and this was definitely not five foot nine. This was basketball-player-standing-on-another-basketball-player's-shoulders territory. This was "how do you even fit through doors" territory. This was "the ceiling is a suggestion" territory.
Gary stumbled toward the stream, his massive legs covering ground at an alarming rate. Each step felt like it should be causing earthquakes. Maybe it was. He couldn't tell.
He reached the stream and looked down at his reflection.
And screamed.
The face looking back at him was not his face. His face had been round and friendly, the kind of face that people forgot five seconds after meeting him. This face was sharp. Angular. With a jaw that could cut diamonds and cheekbones that could probably deflect bullets. The kind of face that belonged on a statue or a warning poster.
His hair was dark crimson, almost maroon, and styled upward in a way that defied gravity and good sense. It was like someone had taken a normal hairstyle and then pointed it aggressively at the sky. His eyes were sharp and intense, with crimson irises that matched his hair. There was a slight scarred pattern around his mouth, though his mouth itself was hidden by—
Was that a scarf? Some kind of fluffy, feathered collar thing? Gary reached up to touch it and realized it was attached to the rest of his outfit, which appeared to be some kind of leather jacket-vest hybrid paired with gloves and pants that probably required their own zip code.
And his arms. Dear God, his arms. They were covered in tattoos—geometric patterns that wound around his forearms in intricate designs that Gary's previous artistic ability (nonexistent) could never have conceived.
"I know this guy," Gary muttered to his reflection. "I know this freaking guy."
He was Charlotte Katakuri. The strongest Sweet Commander of the Big Mom Pirates. One of the most powerful characters in One Piece. The man who could see the future, who had never been defeated until Monkey D. Luffy came along, who was so terrifyingly competent that he'd become a fan favorite despite being a villain.
Gary had watched One Piece. All of it. Every episode. Every movie. He'd read the manga too, because sometimes the anime pacing made him want to scream into a pillow. He had opinions about which arcs were the best (Marineford, obviously, but also Water 7 and Enies Lobby). He had opinions about which Devil Fruit he'd want (the Door Door Fruit, for maximum introvert potential). He had read that analysis about Katakuri's fighting style literally hours before his death.
And now he was Katakuri.
"Okay," Gary said to his reflection, watching Katakuri's mouth move behind the fluffy scarf thing. "Okay. This is fine. This is totally fine. I'm in One Piece. I'm a sixteen-foot-tall monster man with future sight and the Mochi Mochi Fruit. This is fine."
It was not fine. Gary was having a full-blown existential crisis. But crisis or not, he was Katakuri now, and Katakuri didn't have existential crises. Katakuri was too cool for existential crises. Katakuri looked at existential crises and they apologized for bothering him.
Gary took a deep breath. Then another. He tried to channel the calm, unflappable energy of the character he now inhabited.
It sort of worked. Mostly. His hands were only shaking a little.
But wait. Something was wrong. Gary looked around again at the forest, really looked this time. The trees were wrong. Not wrong like "these are trees from One Piece," but wrong like "these don't look like any landscape I remember from One Piece at all."
One Piece had distinctive environments. Crazy islands with specific themes. Candy forests and prehistoric jungles and winter wonderlands. This forest looked almost... normal. Earthy. Realistic. The kind of forest you might actually find on Earth, just larger and older.
And there was something else. The air smelled different. The light was different. Even the way the wind moved through the leaves felt different somehow.
Gary's blood ran cold.
There was a headband on the ground nearby. He hadn't noticed it before, too distracted by his body horror moment. It was metal, with a cloth strap, and there was a symbol engraved on the metal plate.
A symbol Gary recognized.
A spiral. With a small extension at the bottom.
The symbol of Konohagakure. The Village Hidden in the Leaves.
Gary was not in One Piece.
Gary was in Naruto.
"Oh no," Gary whispered.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the headband like it might suddenly reveal itself to be a joke. It did not. It remained stubbornly, persistently a Konoha forehead protector, gleaming dully in the dappled forest light.
Gary's mind raced. He was in the Naruto world. With the body and powers of a One Piece character. This was either the greatest cosmic joke ever played, or the universe had seriously screwed up its filing system.
Both, Gary decided. It's definitely both.
The cosmic entity had mentioned a clerical error. Apparently, someone in the afterlife's administrative department had really dropped the ball. They'd probably meant to send him to One Piece as Katakuri, but somehow he'd ended up in Naruto instead. Wrong world, right body. Like getting the right package delivered to the wrong address.
I'm going to find whatever cosmic accountant did this and I'm going to... complain at them. Very sternly. With many forms filled out in triplicate.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, Gary needed to figure out when he was. The timeline mattered. A lot. If this was during the Fourth Great Ninja War, he might be fine—his power level would still be absurd, but at least there would be other absurdly powerful beings around. If this was during the early series, when Naruto was still a kid, then Gary was basically a god walking among mortals.
And if this was earlier—during one of the previous wars—
Gary needed information. But first, he needed to understand what he could actually do.
Because if he was going to survive in this world (and apparently he was, whether he wanted to or not), he needed to know his capabilities.
The Mochi Mochi Fruit. That was his power now. In One Piece, it was classified as a Special Paramecia—a fruit that gave the user the properties of a Logia while technically being a Paramecia. Katakuri could turn his body into mochi, create mochi from nothing, and manipulate it in almost any way imaginable.
Gary concentrated on his arm and thought about mochi.
His arm turned to mochi.
Not metaphorically. Literally. His arm became a mass of pink, sticky, rice-cake substance that stretched and moved according to his will. He could feel it, in a weird, synesthetic way—like his arm was still there, but also not, replaced by something malleable and strange.
"That is the weirdest sensation I have ever experienced," Gary muttered. "And I once got a foot massage from a guy who definitely had a fetish."
He reformed his arm, watching with morbid fascination as the mochi pulled itself back together into flesh and bone and muscle. Except it wasn't really flesh and bone and muscle, was it? It just looked like it. He was mochi all the way down now. A mochi man in a mochi world. Except this wasn't a mochi world, it was a ninja world, and he was still a mochi man.
I'm overthinking this. Focus, Gary. Focus.
He tried something else. He concentrated on his fist and thought about heat.
The mochi began to glow. Not glow like "slightly warm," but glow like "approaching the surface of the sun." The pink substance turned orange, then white, and Gary could feel the heat radiating outward in waves. The grass at his feet began to wilt. The air shimmered like a desert mirage.
"Burned Mochi," he breathed. "Holy shit, I can use Burned Mochi."
In the canon of One Piece, Katakuri could superheat his mochi to create devastating attacks. His Burning Mochi was hot enough to cause serious damage even to opponents with incredible durability. It was one of his signature techniques—taking an already versatile power and adding "set everything on fire" to the list of capabilities.
And now Gary could do it too.
He deactivated the ability before he accidentally started a forest fire and moved on to the next experiment.
Creating objects.
Katakuri could shape his mochi into anything—weapons, projectiles, earplugs (for some reason, in canon, he'd used it to block out a scream from Big Mom), shields, platforms, whatever he needed. The only limit was his imagination and the amount of mochi he could produce, which appeared to be effectively infinite.
Gary concentrated on the palm of his hand and willed the mochi to take shape.
A donut appeared in his palm.
Gary stared at it. It was pink. It was perfectly formed. It was made of mochi. It looked delicious.
Of course my first instinct is to make food, he thought. Classic Gary.
But donuts weren't just food in Katakuri's arsenal. They were weapons. They were portals. They were the foundation of one of the most broken fighting styles in One Piece.
"Okay, but can I—"
He threw the donut at a tree.
The tree exploded.
Not caught fire. Not cracked. Exploded. The donut had punched through the trunk like a cannonball through wet paper, leaving a perfect circular hole in its wake and causing the entire top half of the tree to topple over with a tremendous crash.
Birds fled from the surrounding trees. Small animals scattered in panic. Gary stood in the resulting silence, his arm still extended from the throw, his brain desperately trying to process what had just happened.
"OKAY THEN," Gary said loudly to no one. "WE CAN DO THAT. THAT'S FINE. EVERYTHING IS FINE."
He spent the next hour testing the limits of his creation abilities, moving deeper into the forest to avoid accidentally destroying anything important.
Swords made of mochi—they worked, and could be superheated to cut through stone like butter. Gary created a replica of Mogura, Katakuri's signature trident, and found that it felt natural in his hands despite the fact that he had never wielded a weapon more dangerous than a butter knife in his previous life.
Shields made of mochi—they could block impacts that would have turned a normal person into paste. Gary tested this by dropping a boulder on himself (he'd found a cliff and knocked one loose with a punch), and the mochi shield didn't even dent.
Projectiles of various sizes—all devastatingly effective. Mochi bullets punched through trees. Mochi cannonballs created craters. Mochi spears embedded themselves in rock walls so deeply that Gary couldn't pull them out.
But it was the ground-manipulation that really blew Gary's mind.
He spread mochi across a section of forest floor, letting it seep into the earth and coat the surface. Then he willed it to move.
The ground rose up like a wave.
Trees toppled. Rocks shifted. The entire section of forest floor became a rolling, moving mass of terrain that responded to Gary's every thought. He could create hills, valleys, waves of earth that crashed and reformed according to his will.
"This is broken," Gary said, watching the ground settle back into place. "This is so completely broken. I am a walking natural disaster."
He tried something else—something he remembered from Katakuri's fights in the manga. He created a small hole in the air, about the size of a basketball, and punched through it.
His fist emerged from another hole, twenty feet away, slamming into a boulder with enough force to shatter it.
"PORTAL PUNCHES," Gary shouted, because at this point he was too overwhelmed to maintain any semblance of composure. "I CAN PUNCH THROUGH PORTALS. WHAT THE HELL."
This was Katakuri's signature technique in combat—creating "donut holes" in space that allowed him to attack from any angle, any distance, at any time. It made him nearly impossible to defend against, because you never knew where the next attack would come from.
And now Gary could do it.
He tested it a few more times, confirming that he could create multiple holes simultaneously, that he could move through them himself if he wanted (though it was disorienting as hell), and that the range was limited only by his line of sight.
Then he moved on to Haki.
Haki was the other half of Katakuri's power—the spiritual energy that all beings possessed but only the strong could access. There were three types: Observation, Armament, and Conqueror's.
Gary closed his eyes and reached inward, searching for the sensation of Observation Haki.
He found it immediately.
It was like a sixth sense, an awareness of everything around him that went beyond normal perception. He could feel the animals in the forest—deer, rabbits, birds, insects—each one a small spark of life in his mental landscape. He could sense the flow of the stream, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the slow heartbeat of the earth itself.
And there were people. Lots of people. Concentrations of them that could only be villages or military encampments. Scattered individuals moving through the forest. And far, far away, a cluster of incredibly powerful presences engaged in what felt like combat.
But it was the future sight that really set Katakuri apart. In canon, his Observation Haki was so refined that he could see several seconds into the future, predicting attacks before they happened with perfect accuracy.
Gary focused harder, trying to push his perception forward in time.
Flash.
—a blade swinging toward his neck, easily dodged—
Flash.
—rain falling from a cloudless sky—
Flash.
—screaming, explosions, the chaos of battle—
Flash.
—a woman with blonde hair looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite identify—
Gary snapped back to the present with a gasp. The visions were fragmentary, confusing, overlapping. He didn't have Katakuri's decades of experience in interpreting them. But the ability was there, waiting to be refined.
Armament Haki was next. Gary concentrated on his arm and willed it to harden.
His arm turned black. Not the black of shadow, but the gleaming, metallic black of Busoshoku Haki—the invisible armor that Katakuri used to enhance his attacks and defend against even the most powerful blows.
Gary punched a boulder.
The boulder didn't just crack. It disintegrated. One moment it was a solid mass of stone; the next, it was a cloud of dust and fragments.
"Oh my God," Gary breathed. "I am a monster."
He tested a few more things—Haki-enhanced mochi, Haki-enhanced projectiles, Haki-enhanced punches through portal holes—and each one was more devastatingly effective than the last.
Finally, he turned to Conqueror's Haki.
This was the rarest and most dangerous of the three types—the ability to overwhelm the wills of others with sheer spiritual pressure. Only one in several million people were born with it. It couldn't be trained or learned; you either had it or you didn't.
Katakuri had it.
Which meant Gary had it.
He released a tiny pulse of Conqueror's Haki, just a fraction of his full power.
Every animal within a hundred meters dropped unconscious.
The trees seemed to groan, their leaves rustling in a wind that didn't exist.
The air itself felt heavier, charged with an oppressive energy that made Gary's skin prickle.
"Okay," Gary said quietly. "Okay. That's terrifying. Let's not do that again unless absolutely necessary."
He sat down on a mochi-created chair and tried to process everything he'd learned.
He was Charlotte Katakuri. He had all of Katakuri's powers—the Mochi Mochi Fruit, all three types of Haki, the physical strength and speed of one of the strongest pirates in the One Piece world. He was, quite possibly, the most powerful being on this planet.
And he had no idea what he was supposed to do with that power.
Okay, Gary thought. First priority: figure out when and where I am. Second priority: don't accidentally kill anyone. Third priority: find food, because I'm actually getting hungry and I don't know if mochi counts as—
Wait. He could make mochi. He was literally made of mochi. Could he eat himself?
Gary created a small ball of mochi and tentatively took a bite.
It was delicious.
Okay, food is not a problem. That's one less thing to worry about.
His train of thought was interrupted by a distant explosion.
No, not an explosion. Multiple explosions. And screaming. And the clash of metal on metal.
A battle. There was a battle happening, somewhere to the north. Gary's Observation Haki could sense it clearly now—dozens of individuals fighting, their life forces flaring and dimming as they attacked and defended and died.
And there were three incredibly powerful presences in the middle of it all, fighting against one even more powerful presence.
Don't investigate, Gary told himself. You just woke up. You don't know the situation. You should stay here, gather information, figure out what's—
But his Observation Haki was telling him something else. The three powerful presences were losing. Badly. One of them was flagging, their life force flickering like a candle in a storm. If nothing changed, they would be dead within minutes.
Gary stood up.
I'm not a hero, he reminded himself. I was a data entry clerk. I entered numbers into spreadsheets. I'm not qualified to interfere in ninja battles.
But he was already walking. His massive legs carried him through the forest at a pace that would have left Olympic sprinters weeping in envy.
I'm not going to get involved, he insisted. I'm just going to... observe. From a safe distance. And if things get really bad, maybe I'll—
He needed to test his ranged attacks anyway. That was all this was. A practical experiment. Nothing heroic about it.
Gary reached a clearing and looked out over a valley below.
The battle was happening about three miles away. He could see it clearly with his enhanced senses—explosions of elemental jutsu, flashes of steel, the tiny figures of shinobi dancing through combat.
And in the center, three figures in coordinated formation, facing off against a single opponent who was systematically dismantling them.
Gary's Observation Haki told him everything he needed to know about the combatants. The three—two men and a woman—were powerful, but tired. Injured. They had been fighting for a long time and were running on fumes. Their opponent, on the other hand, was fresh. Strong. Confident.
Gary focused on the lone opponent and felt a chill run down his spine.
The man was carrying a kusarigama—a sickle on a chain—and wearing a distinctive rebreather mask. His chakra (was that what they called it here? Gary was still fuzzy on Naruto terminology) was immense, almost oppressive.
That's Hanzo, Gary realized. Hanzo the Salamander. The man who gave the Sannin their name.
This was the Second Shinobi War. He was watching one of the most famous battles in Naruto history—the fight that would establish Jiraiya, Tsunade, and Orochimaru as legendary shinobi.
In canon, they survived this. Barely. Hanzo was so impressed by their tenacity that he let them live and gave them their title.
But Gary's Observation Haki was showing him something different. Maybe it was because he was here now, observing. Maybe his presence had somehow changed things. Maybe the timeline was just different in this version of events.
Whatever the reason, the Sannin were not going to survive this battle.
He could see it in his future sight—flashes of what was to come if nothing changed. Jiraiya falling. Tsunade screaming. Orochimaru fleeing. Hanzo standing triumphant over their corpses.
Not my problem, Gary told himself firmly. This is their fight. Their world. I shouldn't interfere.
But even as he thought it, he was raising his hand.
He really did just want to test his ranged attacks. That was all. A simple experiment. He would aim for something far away from the combatants—a rock, maybe, or an empty stretch of ground—and see how far his projectiles could travel.
Yeah. That was totally the reason. Definitely not because he didn't want to watch three people die when he could stop it. Definitely not because some part of him, despite everything, still believed in doing the right thing.
Shut up, conscience. I'm testing my powers. This is purely scientific.
Gary created a cannonball of mochi in his palm. It was about the size of a basketball, dense and heavy. He superheated it until it glowed white-hot, then coated it in Armament Haki until it turned black and gleaming.
He drew back his arm.
He aimed for a cliff face about half a mile past the battlefield.
He threw.
Gary threw a little too hard.
The cannonball left his hand at a speed that broke the sound barrier. It crossed the three miles to the battlefield in less than a second, trailing superheated air and leaving a visible distortion in its wake.
It passed the cliff face he'd been aiming for.
It passed the battlefield.
It passed directly through Hanzo the Salamander's chest.
For a moment, nothing happened. Hanzo was still standing, still in the middle of his attack, his kusarigama raised for what would have been a killing blow against the white-haired man.
Then he looked down at the dinner-plate-sized hole where his heart used to be.
"What—" he started to say.
And then he fell over. Dead.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Gary stared at the distant battlefield, his arm still extended, his brain trying desperately to process what had just happened.
I just killed Hanzo the Salamander, he thought numbly. I just killed one of the strongest shinobi in history. By accident. With a mochi cannonball.
The universe is laughing at me. I can feel it.
Three miles away, the three survivors were staring at the corpse of their opponent. Even from this distance, Gary could sense their confusion, their shock, their complete inability to comprehend what had just happened.
He should probably leave. Yes. Leaving was the smart move. Just turn around, walk away, and pretend this never happened. No one had seen him. No one knew he was responsible. He could just—
One of the three survivors—the woman, with blonde hair and impressive chakra—turned and looked directly at him.
Gary's Observation Haki confirmed it. She was looking at him. Somehow, despite the distance, despite the chaos, she had spotted him standing on the ridge. Maybe she had sensory abilities. Maybe she'd seen the projectile's trajectory. Maybe she was just really, really perceptive.
Whatever the reason, she knew where he was.
Okay, Gary thought. Okay. New plan. We're going to be mysterious. We're going to be intimidating. We're going to channel Katakuri energy and pretend this was all intentional.
He had established some rules for himself while testing his powers. Rules that would help him survive in this new world without revealing the embarrassing truth of his origins.
First rule: Never show weakness. Katakuri's greatest fear in canon was being seen as anything less than perfect. Gary could use that. He would project absolute confidence at all times, even if internally he was screaming.
Second rule: Never explain himself unnecessarily. Mysterious and powerful was better than talkative and approachable. Let people fill in the blanks with their own assumptions. It was harder to contradict yourself if you never said anything in the first place.
Third rule: Never, ever, under any circumstances, tell anyone he was from another world. That would be stupid. That would be the kind of thing that idiots in isekai stories did, and Gary was not an idiot. He was a man who had died to a taco truck, yes, but he was not an idiot.
Fourth rule: Aura. He needed to project aura. Katakuri had presence—the kind of presence that made people instinctively take a step back, the kind of presence that filled a room (or a battlefield) with palpable intimidation. Gary needed to cultivate that.
He straightened his spine. He let his expression go blank, cold, unreadable. He activated his Observation Haki at a low level, just enough to track the approaching figures without overwhelming himself.
And then he waited.
They emerged from the treeline about ten minutes later.
Gary had positioned himself in a small clearing, seated on a mochi-constructed throne (because if you were going to be a sixteen-foot-tall intimidating presence, you might as well commit to the aesthetic). His arms were crossed over his massive chest, and his scarred mouth was hidden by the fluffy collar of his jacket.
The three figures stopped at the edge of the clearing and stared.
Gary said nothing. Katakuri wouldn't speak first. Katakuri would wait, patient and unflappable, for others to approach him.
The three figures were instantly recognizable even in their younger forms. Jiraiya, with his wild white hair and distinctive facial markings—red lines under his eyes that made him look like he was perpetually crying or perpetually about to throw hands. He was tall, muscular, and currently covered in enough blood (some his, some not) to make a vampire jealous.
Orochimaru, pale as death with those unnervingly golden eyes that had the slitted pupils of a snake. His long black hair was tangled and dirty, and there were cuts on his arms that were still seeping blood. He looked at Gary with an expression of cold calculation, already analyzing, already scheming.
And Tsunade. Blonde and beautiful and currently covered in enough blood and dirt that she looked like she'd been through a war.
Which, Gary reminded himself, she had. They all had. This was the Second Shinobi War. These three were still young—probably in their early twenties, not yet the legends they would become. They had just been fighting Hanzo the Salamander.
And Gary had killed Hanzo.
With a mochi cannonball.
By accident.
Don't think about it. Don't laugh. Katakuri would not laugh. Katakuri was never even born; I'm sure he's never laughed in his life.
"Who are you?" Jiraiya demanded, his voice surprisingly steady given the circumstances. His hand was on a kunai, though Gary doubted the man really thought that would do anything against someone who'd just casually murdered Hanzo from three miles away. "Are you responsible for what happened back there?"
Gary remained silent for a long moment. Just long enough to make them uncomfortable. Then he spoke, pitching his voice as deep and resonant as he could manage.
"I am Katakuri."
No surname. No affiliation. Just the name, offered like a gift they didn't deserve.
"Katakuri," Orochimaru repeated, tasting the name. His golden eyes narrowed. "I've never heard of anyone by that name. You're not from any of the major villages—your height, your appearance, they're unlike anything in recorded history."
Because I'm not from any village, snake boy. I'm from a world where pirates fight admirals and islands float in the sky and a rubber man is going to become the Pirate King. But I'm not going to tell you that.
Gary said nothing. Let them speculate. Let them wonder. Let them create their own theories about who he was and where he came from. Their assumptions would probably be more believable than the truth anyway.
"You killed Hanzo," Tsunade said.
Gary's attention snapped to her, and he immediately wished it hadn't.
She was looking at him. Really looking at him. Her eyes were traveling across his form with an intensity that made him deeply uncomfortable—starting at his feet, moving up his legs, lingering on his chest, pausing on his arms, and finally settling on his face with an expression that Gary could only describe as interested.
Very interested.
Why is she looking at me like that? Is there something on my face? I mean, there are scars on my face, but she can't see those, I have the fluffy collar thing—
"You killed Hanzo the Salamander with a single attack," she continued, and was her voice always that husky? "From miles away. While he was at full strength. While he was in the middle of combat with three elite jonin."
"I did," Gary admitted, because denying it would be pointless.
The three Sannin exchanged glances. Gary caught the flash of Jiraiya's eyebrows rising, Orochimaru's slight head tilt, Tsunade's subtle nod. Some kind of silent communication, developed over years of teamwork.
"That's... impossible," Jiraiya said weakly. "Hanzo was one of the strongest shinobi alive. He was wearing armor. He was reinforced with chakra. We couldn't even scratch him with everything we had, and we're not exactly pushovers."
Gary shrugged, a small movement that rippled through his massive frame. "He was in my way."
It was such a Katakuri thing to say. Dismissive. Casual. As if killing one of the strongest men in the world was a minor inconvenience barely worth mentioning.
Nailed it, Gary thought. I am crushing this mysterious badass thing. Three hundred hours of anime watching have prepared me for exactly this moment.
"We would like to know your intentions," Orochimaru said carefully. His voice was smooth, controlled, but Gary could sense the calculation behind it. The snake was already trying to figure out how to use this situation to his advantage. "You've appeared in the middle of a war zone, killed a powerful enemy of Konoha, and now you're sitting here. Why?"
Gary considered the question. What would Katakuri say? What reason could he give that was both believable and maintained his mysterious aura?
Keep it simple. Keep it vague. Let them fill in the blanks.
"I have no interest in your war," Gary said finally. "I was testing my abilities. Hanzo happened to be in the path of my attack. His death was incidental."
"Incidental," Tsunade repeated.
She had taken a step closer. Gary's Observation Haki pinged a warning, but not a threat warning. Something else. Something he couldn't quite identify.
"You killed a demigod of shinobi incidentally?" she asked.
Her voice was definitely doing something. It was lower now, almost a purr. And her eyes—why were her eyes doing that? They were half-lidded, focused on him with an intensity that made his (Katakuri's) skin prickle with awareness.
What is happening right now?
"He was not a demigod," Gary said flatly, trying to focus on the conversation and not on whatever Tsunade was doing with her face. "He was weak. He simply appeared strong because no one had challenged him properly."
Okay, that was a lie. Hanzo had been genuinely powerful by Naruto standards. But by One Piece standards? By the standards of a world where people could punch through mountains and survive falls from the sky and fight for days without rest? Hanzo was middling at best.
And Gary had Katakuri's body. Katakuri's power. By One Piece standards, Gary was top-tier. One of the strongest fighters in a world of monsters.
It was entirely possible that nothing in the Naruto world could actually threaten him.
That thought was both comforting and terrifying.
"You..." Jiraiya was staring at him with open shock. "You're saying Hanzo was weak? You?"
"Compared to me, yes."
Silence fell over the clearing. Gary could sense their emotions through his Observation Haki—Jiraiya's disbelief and growing wariness, Orochimaru's calculating interest and barely suppressed scientific curiosity, and Tsunade's...
Gary's brain stuttered to a halt.
What was Tsunade feeling? It was warm. Intense. Focused directly on him in a way that made his entire body feel like it was being examined under a very thorough, very appreciative microscope. It felt like...
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
Tsunade was looking at him with bedroom eyes.
This couldn't be happening. This was not supposed to be happening. Gary was a thirty-two-year-old data entry clerk who had died to a taco truck. He was not prepared for one of the most famously beautiful women in anime history to look at him like he was a particularly appetizing snack.
She's young, Gary reminded himself frantically. She's probably in her early twenties. This is the Second Shinobi War. Her boyfriend Dan is probably still alive. Why is she looking at me like that? Isn't she supposed to be with Dan?
But another part of his brain—a treacherous, terrible part—pointed out that he was currently sixteen feet of pure muscle, wrapped in mysterious badass energy, and had just casually killed one of the strongest men in the world. He was sitting on a throne he'd created from nothing, projecting an aura of absolute power and confidence.
From a certain perspective, he could see why that might be attractive?
NO. STOP THAT. BAD BRAIN. WE ARE NOT GOING DOWN THIS PATH.
"Katakuri-san," Tsunade said, and good lord, was her voice always that husky? "You clearly have no allegiance to any village. You're incredibly powerful. Perhaps you might consider working with Konoha?"
"Tsunade!" Jiraiya hissed. "We don't even know who he is!"
"He killed Hanzo," Tsunade shot back, not taking her eyes off Gary. "That makes him stronger than anyone else we could possibly recruit. Imagine what he could do for the war effort. For the village." Her eyes raked over his form again. "For medical research."
"Medical research?" Orochimaru asked, raising an eyebrow.
"His body is clearly unique," Tsunade said.
Gary did not miss the way she emphasized the word 'body.' He was trying very hard to miss it, but his Observation Haki was making that impossible.
"The physiology alone would be worth studying," she continued. "All those muscles. So many muscles. Such large, well-defined muscles."
"Tsunade." Jiraiya's voice was flat. "You're drooling."
"I am not drooling. I am making professional observations."
"You're making something, and it's not professional."
Gary was going to die. Not from combat—he was pretty sure nothing in this world could actually kill him—but from pure secondhand embarrassment. He was going to spontaneously combust from the sheer awkwardness of having Tsunade Senju thirst over him in front of her teammates.
Katakuri would not react. Katakuri would stay cool. Katakuri would—
"I have no interest in joining your village," Gary said, proud that his voice remained steady. "But I may remain in this area for a time. I have things to consider."
Like how to survive in a world he barely understood. Like how to avoid accidentally killing anyone else. Like how to handle the fact that a legendary ninja was apparently into sixteen-foot-tall mochi men.
"Then perhaps we could discuss things further," Tsunade said, stepping closer again. "Over dinner? I'm an excellent cook."
That is a lie, Gary's Observation Haki whispered. She cannot cook at all. She is lying to spend time with you.
Gary didn't need Observation Haki to know that. He'd watched the anime. Tsunade's cooking skills were legendary in how bad they were.
"I have my own food," Gary said quickly.
He created a donut. Just manifested it from his palm in a swirl of pink mochi, perfectly formed and faintly steaming.
All three Sannin stared at the donut like he'd just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
"You can create food," Orochimaru breathed, his eyes lighting up with scientific interest. Gary could practically see the research proposals forming in the snake's mind. "From nothing. That's not ninjutsu. That's not genjutsu. What is that?"
"It is my ability," Gary said vaguely. "I eat when I choose. I fight when I choose. I leave when I choose."
He took a bite of the donut. It was delicious. Being made of mochi and being able to create mochi-based food was actually pretty great, if he was honest.
Tsunade watched him eat with an intensity that bordered on uncomfortable.
"Those scars on your mouth," she said suddenly. "They look old. Healed improperly. I could examine them, if you'd like. I'm a medical specialist."
Gary had no idea what the scars were from. In One Piece canon, they were from a childhood incident that had left Katakuri self-conscious about his appearance. He kept his mouth hidden at all times, maintaining an image of perfection.
"No," Gary said simply.
"But I could—"
"No."
Tsunade actually pouted. A grown woman, covered in battle grime and blood, pouting at him like a child denied a treat. Gary wasn't sure whether to be flattered or disturbed.
Both, he decided. Definitely both.
"We should return to Konoha," Jiraiya said, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to sanity. "Report what happened. Hanzo's death will change everything. The war could end with this."
"He's right," Orochimaru agreed, though he was still staring at Gary with poorly concealed fascination. "Katakuri-san, you said you may remain in this area. May I ask where you intend to stay?"
Gary hadn't thought about that. He'd been so focused on not dying, not revealing his isekai status, and maintaining his mysterious aura that he hadn't considered practical matters like shelter.
"I will find a place," he said vaguely.
"The village could provide accommodations," Tsunade offered immediately. "Large accommodations. Very sturdy accommodations."
Why did she say 'sturdy' like that? Why is everything she says suddenly sounding suggestive?
"I will consider it," Gary said, just to get her to stop looking at him like that.
It didn't work. If anything, she looked more encouraged.
"Then we'll await your decision," she said, her voice practically a purr. "Konoha would be happy to host someone of your stature."
STOP. STOP WITH THE INNUENDOS. I AM HAVING A VERY DIFFICULT DAY AND I DO NOT NEED THIS.
"We should go," Jiraiya said firmly, grabbing Tsunade's arm. "Now. Before you say anything else that makes this weird."
"It's not weird," Tsunade protested as she was dragged away. "He's clearly a mature adult! Look at the size of him!"
"TSUNADE."
"What?! I'm just saying—"
Their voices faded into the forest as Jiraiya forcibly removed his teammate from the clearing. Orochimaru lingered a moment longer, those golden eyes studying Gary with unsettling intensity.
"You are a mystery, Katakuri-san," Orochimaru said quietly. "A being of unknown origin with powers unlike anything in recorded history. I find myself very curious about you."
I'm a data entry clerk who died to a taco truck, Gary thought. If you knew the truth, you'd be so disappointed.
"Curiosity can be dangerous," Gary said instead, keeping his voice flat and cold.
Orochimaru smiled, and it was not a friendly expression. It was the smile of a scientist who had just found a new specimen to study.
"Indeed it can," he agreed. "I look forward to learning more about you, Katakuri-san. One way or another."
And then he was gone, slithering into the shadows like the snake he was.
Gary sat on his mochi throne, alone in the clearing, and tried to process what had just happened.
He had killed Hanzo the Salamander by accident. He had met the Three Legendary Sannin. He had successfully maintained his mysterious badass persona. And he had apparently become the object of Tsunade Senju's very focused interest.
Also, Orochimaru was fascinated by him, which probably wasn't great. But the snake didn't seem to suspect the truth about Gary's origins—just that he was strange and powerful and worth studying. That was manageable. Orochimaru was fascinated by lots of things. He collected jutsu and powerful individuals like other people collected stamps.
Okay, Gary thought. Okay. I can do this. I'm Katakuri now. I'm powerful. I'm mysterious. I'm definitely not a former data entry clerk who died to a taco truck.
He took another bite of his mochi donut.
I can do this.
But even as he thought it, he couldn't shake the feeling that his problems were only just beginning.
Because Tsunade had looked at him with bedroom eyes. And Gary had absolutely no idea how to handle that.
He was Charlotte Katakuri—the undefeated Sweet Commander, the man with future sight, the warrior who had never fallen in battle until Monkey D. Luffy came along. He was sixteen feet of pure muscle, wrapped in mysterious badass energy, capable of destroying armies with a wave of his hand.
And he was utterly, completely terrified of a blonde woman who was way too interested in his "physiology."
Gary groaned and buried his face in his hands.
This is going to be a long isekai.
The sun continued its journey across the sky, indifferent to his suffering. Somewhere in the distance, Tsunade was probably already planning their next "encounter." And Gary was left sitting on his mochi throne, wondering how a data entry clerk who died to a taco truck had ended up in this exact situation.
The answer, of course, was cosmic bureaucratic error.
But that didn't make it any less absurd.
Gary finished his donut, created another one, and resigned himself to his fate. He was stuck in the Naruto world, in the body of a One Piece character, during one of the bloodiest wars in shinobi history. He had accidentally killed a legendary ninja, attracted the romantic attention of a future Hokage, and aroused the scientific curiosity of the man who would become one of the most dangerous criminals in history.
First rule, he reminded himself. Never show weakness. Katakuri never showed weakness.
Second rule: Never explain yourself unnecessarily. Mysterious and powerful is better than talkative and approachable.
Third rule: NEVER tell anyone you're from another world. That would be stupid. That would be the kind of thing that idiots in isekai stories did.
Fourth rule: Aura. Project aura at all times. Be intimidating. Be unknowable. Be the kind of presence that makes people take a step back and reconsider their life choices.
Gary straightened his spine. He let his expression go cold and blank. He was Katakuri now—the perfect warrior, the undefeated champion, the man who had never once shown his true self to anyone.
He could do this.
Probably.
Maybe.
The forest was quiet around him, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds. Gary sat on his throne and watched the sun set, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold.
Tomorrow, he would figure out his next move. Tomorrow, he would decide whether to visit Konoha or disappear into the wilderness. Tomorrow, he would start building the legend of Katakuri in this strange new world.
But tonight, he would sit here and try to come to terms with his new existence.
He was no longer Gary Henderson, data entry clerk, victim of taco truck homicide.
He was Katakuri. The Mochi Man. The one who had killed Hanzo the Salamander with a casual throw.
And somehow, against all odds, he was going to make this work.
Even if Tsunade won't stop looking at me like I'm a snack, he thought grimly.
Especially then.
The first stars appeared in the darkening sky. Gary sat on his mochi throne and contemplated the absurdity of his new life.
He had been ordinary. Forgettable. A background character in his own existence.
And now he was anything but.
Gary Henderson is dead, he thought. Long live Katakuri.
He took a bite of his donut.
It was still delicious.
Somewhere in the direction of Konoha, Tsunade was definitely thinking about his muscles. Gary tried not to think about that.
He failed.
This is fine, he told himself. Everything is fine.
It was not fine.
But it was definitely going to be interesting.