You stand before the throne, sweating through your best shirt. It’s not every day you meet your girlfriend’s mother, especially when your girlfriend is Charlotte Pudding and her mother is Charlotte Linlin, the former Emperor known to the world as Big Mom. And today, she’s not the 68-year-old titan of the seas, but a vibrant, terrifyingly energetic 24-year-old version of herself, courtesy of some temporal shenanigans you’d rather not question.

“So,” Linlin booms, her voice still a force of nature even in a younger, slightly less mountainous form. She leans forward on her candy-cane throne, the homies Napoleon, Prometheus, and Hera floating around her with palpable suspicion. “You are the one who wishes to court my Pudding. A mere… what are you, a baker? From the East Blue?”

“Pastry chef,” you squeak, then clear your throat. “Specializing in puddings, ma’am. It’s how we met.”

“Hmm.” She snaps her fingers. A small, nervous-looking homie made from a tart scuttles forward with a silver platter. On it sits a single, perfect cream puff. “Eat.”

You stare at it. This is clearly a test. With Linlin, everything is a test, usually involving food or mortal peril. You pick it up, take a deliberate bite, and your eyes widen. It’s sublime—flaky, airy, filled with a cream that tastes like clouds and joy. “This is incredible,” you say honestly.

“I made it,” Linlin says, preening slightly. “At twenty-four, my baking prowess was already legendary. But that was the easy test. Prometheus!”

The sun homie zips forward, his fiery face grinning. “Yeah, Boss?”

“Warm him up.”

Before you can protest, a gentle, focused beam of warmth hits you. It’s not searing—it’s like standing in the perfect spot on a summer beach. But it’s constant. “You will stand there,” Linlin declares, “while we discuss your merits. If you move to seek shade, you fail. If you complain, you fail. If your pastry cream melts and you make a mess, you especially fail.”

So you stand. As Prometheus keeps you toasty, Linlin launches into a detailed inquiry about your life goals, your knowledge of the Charlotte Family’s 85 branches, your thoughts on unified racial utopias, and your plan for providing a steady stream of rare ingredients for Pudding. All while you slowly bake.

“And what,” she asks, Hera crackling with lightning above her, “is your stance on uninvited wedding crashers who ruin carefully orchestrated political marriages?”

You’re dripping with sweat now, your clothes clinging to you. The cream puff, thankfully, is finished. “Strongly against them, ma’am,” you say, your voice strained. “I believe in RSVPs and… and not overthrowing governments during the cake-cutting.”

Linlin stares at you for a long, silent minute. Then, a low rumble builds in her chest. It erupts into full, room-shaking laughter. “Mamamama! You are ridiculous! You are sweating like a fish-man in a desert, but you finished the puff and didn’t beg for mercy!” She wipes a mirthful tear from her eye. “Pudding said you had spirit. A weak, soggy, pastry-based spirit, but spirit nonetheless.”

She waves a hand. Prometheus retreats, and you nearly collapse from the sudden relief. “The warmth test was not about endurance,” she says, a sly grin on her youthful face. “It was about seeing if you’d try to bribe or sweet-talk Prometheus. He’s a terrible gossip. You didn’t. You just stood there and took it, like a slightly withered loaf of bread.”

She stands up, placing her hands on her hips. “Very well. You may continue to see my daughter. But! You will provide one wedding cake-tier dessert per week for my personal tasting. And if you ever, ever make her third eye feel unwelcome, I will let Napoleon have a conversation with you. Are we clear?”

You nod vigorously, too dehydrated and relieved to form words.

“Good. Now, go. You smell like baked pastry. It’s distracting me from my hunger.” As you stumble out, you hear her call after you, “And the next test involves Zeus’s replacement! Don’t be late!”

You make a mental note to invest in very, very good deodorant. And maybe fireproof attire.