"...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.