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Chapter Text

"This is Lois Lane, reporting live from Washington D.C., where the Justice League has assembled to stop a global magical threat."

The camera trembles as another shockwave rolls through the skies, thunderclouds swirling unnaturally fast above the Capitol. From the edge of the rooftop, Lois grips the rail and continues, voice steady despite the magical chaos unfolding in the sky.

"Sources confirm the sorcerer known as Wotan is attempting to blot out the sun using the Amulet of Aten. The League has engaged, and what you’re seeing now—” she pauses as a massive rune circle ignites across the sky above the Washington Monument, searing gold and blood-red lines into the air like a summoning glyph carved into heaven itself. “—isn’t part of their plan.”

In the background, Zatara, Green Lantern, and Superman rise into the sky, power crackling in their hands. Batman stays on the ground, flanked by Martian Manhunter and Flash, all watching warily as Wotan levitates higher.

The sorcerer raises his arms.

"I CALL UPON THE DARK! I CALL UPON THE ANCIENT NAMES—ATEN, SHAITAN, AHURA—!"

And then—he falters.

The circle pulses, humming with a frequency that isn't his. Magical pressure slams outward like a bell tolling through the cosmos, and suddenly Wotan is no longer the master of the ritual.

"Wait—something’s wrong," Lois says, her voice tight. The broadcast zooms in. "The ritual is activating… but Wotan hasn’t finished his chant."

The glyph fractures inward, as if devouring its own center. A radiant silhouette forms, standing still in the heart of the unraveling magic. Golden light outlines the figure, too bright to see clearly—until it fades to reveal a young man.

He stands weirdly dressed in the air above the monument, clad in black and gold ornate, elegant armor that hugs his lean body like it was forged for divinity and death. Crimson spikes fan out across his shoulders like a lion’s mane made of fire. His right earring glints in the dying sunlight, a blood-gem that seems to pulse with its own heartbeat.

A gust of wind sweeps across the rooftops.

The young man breathes in, a subtle flicker of light curling around his form like heat shimmer.

"Who—who dares interfere with my ritual?!" Wotan’s voice booms, trembling now.

However, he doesn’t receive a response.

Lois Lane says, her voice quieter now, transfixed, "We’re witnessing something... unplanned. Unprecedented."

The figure—the young man—stands at the epicenter of the burning glyph, floating with a dreamlike stillness. He is a contradiction: armored in black and gold, crowned in crimson flame, and yet he looks barely old enough to vote.

His head turns slightly.

Blank eyes. Unfocused. The kind of stare seen in newborns—or the dead.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

Even the wind stills around him.

And below, Wotan stares with barely concealed rage and—buried underneath—fear.

"This is not part of the ritual," he growls. He lifts a hand and hurls a bolt of jagged magic toward the intruder.

The blast hits.

It explodes into sparks and violet smoke.

The boy doesn’t even blink.

His armor gleams, untouched.

"He didn’t flinch," Lois whispers, forgetting for a moment that she’s on live TV. "That blast was enough to level a street before..."

Wotan grits his teeth, his voice rising with intent. "Who are you?"

The young man finally moves.

His chin lifts.

His gaze sharpens—just slightly, like fog pulling back from a mirror.

The sky seems to dim again as he opens his mouth. And in a voice as soft as it is final, he answers with a word, “… Karna.”

The name falls like a weight into the world. It’s not loud, but his voice echoes across the sky as if it were carved into stone. Deep. Calm. Almost emotionless.

A moment of absolute silence follows.

Then a pressure descends—heavy, unseen, ancient. The sound of his name lingers in the air like an echo carved into bone. Everyone who hears it, even through speakers, feels it in their chest: a presence. A recognition of something not meant for this world.

.

From the ground, the League stares up, momentarily paralyzed.

Zatara’s lips part. “That… was not a spell. That was his name.”

And now—something shifts. The young man’s expression flickers. A furrow in his brow. A breath. The air around him begins to shimmer with heat. Slowly, as if the air remembers the sun, flames begin to bloom at his feet—rising like a tide.

They crawl up his legs and twist around his arms.

His crimson mantle lifts like smoke in reverse.

Lois Lane’s voice returns, quieter. Reverent. "He’s... on fire. Not burning—becoming fire."

She leans closer to the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, we may have just witnessed the arrival of something divine—or something else entirely."

For a heartbeat, everything is still.

Then young man’s eyes widen as he gasps.

And then he screams.

Not in rage, not in power—but in shock. A raw, instinctive cry that splits the sky. Golden flames flicker at his fingertips, and the sound cracks the air like divine thunder. Everyone—heroes and villain alike—are thrown backward, but not by choice.

A wave of pressure erupts from him like a sonic earthquake made of gold and confusion. It shoves the League, the villain, and even the camera drones back. The signal distorts for a moment—Lois’s audio cuts out and comes back in with a high-pitched ring; the camera catching only sky and flames for a moment before it’s righted again. She hears her own breath—fast, shaky.

"What... what was that—?"

In the sky, Zatara collapses mid-incantation, his spell vanishing with a sizzle of blue while Superman clutches his head, his enhanced hearing overloaded by something not meant for mortal minds.

Meanwhile, Wotan, the closest to the young man, crashes into the stone of the monument like a puppet with cut strings—he doesn’t rise.

Green Lantern surges forward on instinct, catching both Superman and Zatara before they fall.

"Zatara’s out cold!" he barks. "Superman’s stunned—what was that?!"

Above them, the young man—Karna—clutches his head, his scream dying out in a strangled breath. Flames crackle wildly around him like they no longer know where to go. He’s panting, trembling, armor glowing like a forge.

The Justice League is still reeling, Wonder Woman being the first to move. Her golden boots strike the air softly as she ascends with slow, deliberate grace—cutting through the heat, even as the flames buffet her skin, trying to push her back.

She lifts a hand in peace. Her eyes are calm. Unyielding.

"Can you hear me, young man?" she calls, voice clear despite the inferno. "You’re safe. You are not alone."

The young man's head jerks toward her. His eyes—still glowing faintly—widen. For the first time, he seems to see her. The confusion in his expression deepens, flickering into something almost human. His gaze tracks from her to the others—realizing, for the first time, he is surrounded.

When he notices Wonder Woman still approaching him, his lips part and his voice comes again, just a single word—a quiet, but irresistible, “Stop.”

She stops.

Not pauses. Not hesitates.

Stops—utterly and unnaturally still.

The surrounding fire is unaffected, licking her armor. But she no longer moves. No longer breathes.

"Di—Diana!" Green Lantern shouts, flying toward her.

Karna takes a step forward instinctively—but then stops himself.

He looks at his hands. They’re still on fire.

His expression twists—shame, fear, restraint.

Green Lantern reaches her first, grabbing her shoulder and checking her pulse. His eyes narrow. “She’s not breathing—her body’s locked up.”

Zatara stirs behind him. Superman steadies himself in the air.

“Whatever he did,” Green Lantern mutters, “he did it without meaning to.”

His gaze turns toward Karna, hardened now, glowing green with ring-energy.

“You better undo it, sunshine,” he growls. “Now.”

Karna stares at Wonder Woman and something flickers again behind his gaze.

Regret.

Understanding.

He breathes in softly and speaks: “You can move now, Wonder Woman.”

Like a spell breaking, her body shudders. She drops slightly, gasping in a sudden breath, coughing against the heat, as she steadies herself in the air.

Her eyes meet Karna’s. And despite the pain, she nods at him, slowly.

Chapter Text

“...Karna," The name escapes his lips like a bell tolling in a temple—sharp, resonant, final. It doesn’t just answer a question. It awakens the world. And in turn, it awakens him. The fog clinging to his mind begins to recede, slowly, like mist retreating under the rising sun.

There’s a pause in him. A space between heartbeats.

And then—He remembers. Not his old name. Unlike his new name that came easy, unbidden, his old name seems to be blocked from him.

No that it matters now—Not when he remembers dying. A taxi, late at night. A screen, glowing with the final touches of a CYOA build. An excited flutter in his chest as he finalized each line—he’d spent hours tweaking it. He wanted something unique. Something peaceful. Not a fighter, but a guardian. A support.

A healer, a bard maybe.

“If I’m gonna be isekai’d, let’s go full healer,” he had joked in his head. “Make me soft, but dangerous.”

He had made final choice.

Then—blinding lights. Screeching tires. Pain. The sensation of falling and burning and being pulled.

His new body trembles for a second. And then the second wave hits of memories not his own. Flashes of battlefields bathed in red. A chariot of divine fire. Arrows made from stars. The quiet pride of a son of Surya, the Sun God. A life not lived—but one he remembers anyway.

Karna.

Not a name. A lineage. A weight.

He screams, the noise ripping from his throat without meaning to—instinctive, desperate. The world shakes around him. He can feel it. Not just the heat—but the dread, radiating from his voice. He sees people reel and sees them suffer. And he knows: this voice, this gift—was never meant for shouting.

There’s silence in which he can only hear the small intake of breaths. Then, not giving him more time to breathe than that, knowledge comes, cold and certain. It doesn't come like the divine memories did—it downloads into him, file by file, like watching a spreadsheet expand in real time.

Tai Lee’s agility. Her pinpoint strikes.

Magecraft and runecraft etched into his bones, their formulas whispered in hums and breaths.

His healing—soft golden light blooming from voice and touch. Songs that bolster, words that bind, hums that soothe.

Servant, not in class but in essence.

Then the Drawbacks come. Each one like a collar tightening around his throat.

Wanted.

Hunted.

Rough Start.

Summoning.

Amnesia.

And most of all—the Geas: “Do not injure another human.”

At the time, he hadn’t thought twice. He hadn’t even decided on a specific Servant. It had been a joke. A fun little night of fantasy, stitched together in the quiet of a taxi. He remembers glancing at the screen, blinking down at his jumbled mess of power picks and perks, saying, “Guess we’ll figure the Servant bit out later.”

And then—Dead.

Now here. Burning. Glowing. Divine.

His head is pounding. The air is too loud. The fire won’t stop blooming from his skin and he doesn't feel like a god-like being, but like a mistake with the knowledge is still cascading through him—spells, skills, restrictions, identities—all stacking, building, twisting into a self that both is and isn’t him.

He fights to breathe. And then—“Can you hear me, young man?”

The voice is calm, clear, and piercing.

He looks up, blinking through heat-glow and fire-haze. A woman is walking toward him. No, not walking. Flying. Golden armor glints at her shoulders. Her lasso swings gently at her hip, untouched by the rising flames. She moves like she’s not afraid.

“You’re safe. You are not alone.”

She looks… familiar?

He doesn’t respond at first. He’s trying to focus. To place her. And then he sees them—behind her. The others.

The Justice League.

Superman. Green Lantern. Zatara. Batman. Martian Manhunter. Flash. Green Arrow.

His lips part slightly. Wait. This is not… Worm.

Confusion slices through him like a blade because this wasn’t the CYOA he filled out. This isn’t Brockton Bay. That’s Wonder Woman. That’s—oh.

Oh.

He doesn't know if it's better or worse. He wanted cool powers, weird politics, morally gray survival horror with capes with bold symbols and PR teams, not this.

Also, why are they all looking at him like he's a bomb?

He blinks—and that’s when he realizes—Wonder Woman is still approaching. Closer now. Her expression full of concern. Her body enduring the heat.

His throat tightens. “Stop.”

It comes out sharper than he intends—more command than plea.

And she stops. Too hard. Too completely. Her body freezes mid-step, her arms suddenly locked, her chest no longer rising with breath. The firelight reflects off her skin—but she’s motionless.

His heart skips.

No, no, no.

She starts to tilt and she’s still not breathing. Karna steps forward instinctively—but halts. His eyes snap to his own hands. Still on fire. Glowing with divine heat and volatile magic. If he touches her, he doesn’t know what might happen.

He panics—just a little. Just enough. Because she’s dying.

I didn’t mean to—I just—

A streak of green cuts through the sky and Green Lantern rockets forward, catching Wonder Woman before she hits the ground. He gently eases her down, cradling her like a fallen angel.

“She's not moving,” he growls out loud. “She’s not breathing.”

The others start closing in, now that the blast of dread has faded. Karna stares at the woman’s still face and at Green Lantern’s glare as he tells him to undo it and Karna wants to do it and fix the mistake, so he does. His voice is quiet. Intent. Measured now, soft like silk laced with sunrise. “You can move now, Wonder Woman.”

A shudder. A gasp as she jolts slightly in Green Lantern’s arms before sucking in air with a strangled cough. Her fingers twitch. Her eyes flutter open and the weight in Karna’s chest loosens—just a bit. But when he looks at the League again, all he sees is fear behind their ready stances.

Wonder Woman steadies herself in the air, golden armor intact and gleaming, and turns her eyes on him. Pain flickers there—yes—but not anger. She nods at him, instead. A small, measured gesture.

He exhales. The flames around his arms flicker lower, as if soothed by the motion. But the others are watching him now as Green Lantern hovers protectively beside her, ring humming with cautious power. Zatara kneels below, steadying himself, his magical conduit clutched in a shaky hand. Superman drifts closer—face unreadable, eyes glowing faintly red.

The air still thrums with tension. With fear. And Karna can feel it, all of it. He tries to speak, but his voice stalls on the edge of his lips. His words now carry weight—power. He remembers now. Word magic. not quite the Logomancy the Zatara are known for. His voice is sacred, instead and Intent is everything with him.

So instead of talking, he lifts a hand and with just a thought, the flames coiling around his fingertips bend and stretch into shapes. Letters. Cursive and curling like golden silk in the sky.

I’m sorry.

The words burn brightly in the space between them—luminous and sorrowful. He lowers his hand again; the fire dispersing in a gentle sigh.

Superman floats forward, slow and careful. He doesn’t raise his hands. Doesn’t flare his heat vision. But his presence is solid. Steady.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice low. “What are you doing here?”

Karna’s lips part—then stop again. He doesn’t know how to answer. Not honestly. Because the truth is... he doesn’t remember. Not the young man in the taxi. Not his name. Not what his life was. He only knows it was his. And it’s gone now. He knows he made choices. A template. A build. And then—This.

He is not just that young man anymore. He is—something else.

So again, he lifts his hand. The flames rise, soft and shimmering. And in elegant golden script, they write: My name’s Karna. Son of the Sun God, Surya.

The flames linger for a moment longer before dissolving into ash and light as he looks to Superman—silent, waiting. Letting the weight of the name settle between them.

“You’re a legend,” Zatara says, breaking the silence. “A myth. You’re not supposed to be alive.”

His voice is cautious, edged with awe and disbelief. Karna tilts his head slightly.

Behind Zatara, Batman is watching. Not speaking. Not blinking. His presence presses like a shadow—quiet and piercing. Calculating. Measuring everything: his stance, his breathing, his heartbeat.

Karna doesn't flinch under it. He shrugs instead, slow and indifferent, and lifts a single hand once more and the flames rise from his palm and curl into golden script: My last memory is dying.

He doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t speak of taxis or screens or templates. Let them infer battle. Let them believe it was a warrior’s death.

The flames twist and fade as Wonder Woman steps forward, eyes still cautious, but kind.

“The age of the gods has ended, Karna,” she says gently. “On this Earth, they no longer walk freely among us.”

Karna’s brows knit slightly. He closes his eyes for a moment and feels. The power is still here. His connection to the Sun remains unbroken. There is no pull from Gaia, either, no resistance, no tether demanding suppression. Not like the world he half-remembers...But this is not the Fate world.

His eyes open again—glow dulled now, but focused. He lifts his hand, and flame-letters swirl into the air: Then why am I still strong?

Zatara exchanges a look with Wonder Woman—but it's Karna’s silence that weighs heavier.

Then, the magician tries a different question.

“Why did you scream?” he asks. “When you arrived?”

Karna pauses. His fingers twitch. And then the air ripples again with golden fire as words begin to write themselves, line by line, in a measured, even script: I received knowledge of the current world. Too much. All at once. About many things.

Zatara inhales through his nose, clearly shaken. “This summoning gave you knowledge of where and when you are?”

I know only about the bare basics of this era, he writes, not clarifying.

But before he can ask more, a hand lifts—a finger taps Zatara’s shoulder.

Batman.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. He simply gestures, a subtle flick of his fingers, toward the edge of the battle zone. To where the reporters and cameras are still broadcasting. Still recording.

Zatara catches the signal immediately and steps back, composing his face. Wonder Woman’s jaw tightens. She nods once in agreement.

Karna watches all of this wordlessly, only slightly turning his head as Superman floats closer.

“What do we do with him?” Green Lantern mutters, his ring still glowing faintly.

Batman’s voice cuts in quietly through their comms—but Karna hears it anyway. “Our sidekicks are in a situation. Cadmus. Tower Three. They broke protocol.”

“And Wotan?” Zatara asks aloud, turning around—But the space where Wotan fell is empty. Only scorched ground remains, still steaming.

The sorcerer is gone. No sign of teleportation. No trail of magic. Just... vanished.

Batman’s voice is low and final: “We’re taking him with us.”

He doesn’t look at Karna when he says it. But Karna looks at him. And for the first time, he smiles—just a little.

Chapter Text

Green Lantern’s ring hums as it forms a wide, luminous platform, held aloft by emerald geometry. Those who can’t fly—Batman, Zatara, and the Flash—step onto it with practiced ease.

Karna follows silently and soon the battle site fades behind them, replaced by wind and cloud.

He doesn't float or fly. He glides, landing with barely a sound, his black and gold armor gleaming in the fading light. The fire that once danced around him has dwindled to faint flickers at his heels.

The air is tense—still taut with unspoken questions.

Superman, hovering a little ahead, glances over his shoulder. Now that the reporters are out of earshot, his tone is cautious, but kind. “You can’t speak without giving commands?”

Karna tilts his head slightly, as if considering the words. He opens his mouth. Hesitates. Then speaks.

“I think I can,” he says, softly. Gently. Barely above a whisper.

Everyone on the platform tenses.

Zatara’s hand twitches toward his coat. Wonder Woman subtly shifts her stance.

But nothing happens. No pulse of dread. No compulsion. Nothing.

They exhale—quiet relief settling into their bones.

Ahead, Batman taps a few commands into a small device on his wrist. The screen glows cold blue as data scrolls across it.

“There’s nothing in the original myth about your voice having command-based power,” he says without looking up.

“And it wouldn’t be,” Karna replies, voice still soft. “This is new. Whoever summoned me here… gave me powers I don’t remember having. But I have knowledge of them. Like they were loaded into me.”

Zatara raises a brow, intrigued. “Like?”

Karna frowns slightly, brows knitting together. “Healing. Vocal magic. Support-based abilities. Buffs, protection, movement enhancement… spells through song, not incantation. Even breathing techniques that can easily augment a normal person, I know them now. How to use them and teach them. I was meant to support, not fight.”

“But you can fight,” Batman says.

Not a question. A statement. Karna turns his eyes toward him, faintly amused. And for the first time since his summoning, he smiles—wry, a little tired, a little smug.

“I can literally control the sun,” he says. “I could destroy this continent with ease.”

The silence after that is sharp and even Green Lantern’s construct falters slightly beneath their feet, only stabilizing when he catches himself.

“Not that I would,” Karna adds, tone mild. “I have a Geas—I cannot injure a human.”

Batman frowns slightly at that, narrowing his eyes. “But you could injure an alien?”

Karna shrugs one shoulder—neither confirming nor denying. But before he can answer— A flicker. A sudden flare of light from below. Heat.

He turns his head sharply—eyes narrowing at the horizon. From a building not far off, black smoke billows into the air. And fire.

His expression shifts instantly. Focused. Alert.

“There’s a blaze,” he murmurs. “People need help.”

Zatara glances over the side. “That’s Cadmus’ direction.”

Karna’s voice is calm. Quiet. “Then I’ll help.”

And without waiting for approval, he steps off the platform—and drops, streaking downward like a comet with his mantle flaring behind him.

.

The air is thick with smoke and shattered concrete as flames lick upward from the collapsed lower levels of what he guesses is the Cadmus building, while emergency sirens wail in the distance. The ground is scorched, split open where something massive clearly erupted from below.

Karna lands in the debris-strewn street with a soft thud. No crater, no flash—just presence. The fires nearby flicker and hesitate, bending away from him slightly, as if unsure whether they’re permitted to burn in his shadow.

He surveys the wreckage with a quiet frown.

A battlefield. Recently scorched. Supernatural force… controlled chaos. But not war. Not quite. There's movement. From the cloud of dust and smoke stagger four figures. Young. Covered in grime, scratches, bruises—but alive. One with a bright yellow and red suit and a bolt across his chest. One with a red costume and a black cape with yellow highlights. Another in a red shirt and black pants, water swirling defensively around his arms. And the fourth...

Clearly a Superman clone, Karna notes, eyes narrowing slightly at the boy in the white suit, looking exactly like a young Superman. Kryptonian, but... different.

They slow as they spot him. Weapons shift. Stances settle. Even exhausted, they prepare to fight.

They’re young but still heroes.

Karna doesn’t raise a hand. He doesn’t move toward them. He simply breathes in and says: “Heal.”

The command echoes through the smoke. And it works as their wounds begin to close. Scrapes vanish. Swollen limbs shrink back to normal. Their muscles loosen, breaths steady, and the fatigue that draped across them like chains melts away.

The four teens blink in stunned confusion as the surge of energy courses through them.

Kid Flash flexes his fingers. “Whoa—did anyone else just feel like they downed five energy drinks?”

Aqualad exhales sharply, his injuries visibly fading, while Robin’s eyes narrow behind his mask.

“Who are you?” he demands, voice guarded but no longer aggressive.

Karna watches him for a moment, unblinking. Then speaks, his voice low and calm.

“Your mentors will be here shortly, so you won’t have to worry about my identity for long.”

There’s no arrogance in his tone—just simple truth. A quiet, timeless authority.

He hears them before he sees them, but Karna—still haloed by gold light and faint embers—doesn’t even turn to look.

His gaze remains on the sidekicks, who look like they’re dreading the conversation they will have but are still determined to have it. Except for one person, the Superman lookalike, who is staring up, eyes wide—not at Karna, but past him, gaze fixed on the sky behind.

Karna follows it only with a flicker of awareness because there’s a hope in his eyes as he recognizes the one behind him, a quiet longing. He watches, silent. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that the clone must be meeting Superman for the first time. The teen steps forward slightly, the smallest movement, and tugs at the shredded remains of his clothes to show the ‘S’ on top.

Then Karna sees how the teen’s face crumbles slowly, piece by piece, as the man in the sky—his origin, his ideal—does not descend and meet him. Karna glances back to look at Superman, whose expression is twisted. Not quite disgust. Not hatred. But something just as bad: Horror. Fear of himself, perhaps. Or worse—fear of the teen.

Superman begins to drift away and Karna’s jaw clenches.

He raises his voice. “Superman, stop retreating.”

The words freeze the air as everyone turns to him at once. Even the other older heroes pause mid-step when Superman halts midair—held not by force, but by authority but Karna doesn’t care about the stares. He doesn’t flinch under the sudden tension. He steps forward once, putting himself between Superboy and the alien above him.

His voice is low. Controlled. Laced with something stern and angry. “I don’t know who you are as a person. Or who this young man is. But he is clearly your clone.”

Superman’s breath hitches.

“It is not his fault that someone violated your autonomy and used your DNA. So erase that expression on your face. Because if you keep wearing it—” Karna’s eyes narrow, his voice sharpening to the edge of flame, “—I will have to test if my Geas applies to aliens.”

The silence that follows is deadly.

Karna doesn’t blink. He doesn’t threaten lightly—but he will not allow this teen to be discarded like a mistake.

“You can move now. Go and reflect on yourself. And don’t meet this young man again until you’ve sorted out your feelings. He doesn’t deserve to see your face while you wear that look.”

There’s a long pause. And then, slowly, shame flickers across Superman’s face—a flicker of guilt. He says nothing or looks at Superboy again. He just casts a lingering look toward Batman—a loaded, uncertain glance—before flying away in silence. Karna watches him go, expression unreadable. Then he exhales sharply. Not tired, but disgusted.

“Shameful,” he mutters under his breath.

He turns to the younger heroes—Superboy most of all—and offers a small, solemn nod. Then steps away, not far, but enough to give them space. Arms folded, eyes lowered, no longer the center of the storm.

Just a watchful sun, letting them have their moment as the League pulls the sidekicks aside, voices low and stern as they begin their debrief. Debris is still being cleared in the distance. Fire crews have finally arrived, but most of the heat has long since dissipated.

Karna stands slightly apart with his arms folded, gaze lowered. The golden embers trailing from his shoulders have dimmed, but the heat lingers faintly in the air around him.

He doesn’t look up when he hears the footsteps, tentative as they are. He merely waits until a voice, sharp and a little brittle, breaks the quiet, “I didn’t need your help.”

Karna glances sideways. The clone is standing there with his arms crossed, posture defensive, eyes half-hidden beneath the curl of his brow. The almost ripped piece of S on his chest still faintly visible.

Karna doesn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t help you,” he says simply. “Not exactly.”

Superboy frowns. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know you,” Karna replies. “You’re just someone I saw... being hurt by someone else's fear.”

He shifts his weight slightly, not unkind, just truthful. “I stepped in because I hated Superman’s expression. I’ve seen that look before. On people who were supposed to protect me.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like a memory passed too close. “It’s understandable. But it’s not your fault. Or his. It still doesn’t excuse him.”

the young man doesn’t respond at first. He looks away. His fists are clenched, but not raised. Not angry—just… tired.

“…Thank you,” he says, soft. Almost a whisper. But real. "I'm Superboy."

Karna tilts his head slightly. Acknowledging it. Accepting it. 

Superboy looks at him again, curiously.

“I’ve got access to everything the League has on file,” he says quietly. “You’re not in any of it. Not in my memory banks either. So who are you?”

Karna looks at him for a long moment. “My name is Karna. Son of Surya, the Sun God. I just appeared… less than an hour ago.”

That catches Superboy off guard. “Appeared?”

Karna lifts a hand, palm upward, letting a single strand of fire curl into a soft shape—a sun blooming and fading in the space between them. “I don’t know what this place is, or how I arrived. I only know I died somewhere else and woke up here. I don’t know much about this world. Or anything.”

Superboy watches the flame vanish. “That makes two of us.”