The mountains around Nanda Parbat were deathly quiet the night the League found him. Snow drifted through the cold air, settling on stone steps worn smooth by centuries of shadows. A child shivered at the base of the ancient fortress—small, alone, barely six years old, his clothing torn by travel and wind.
The boy had no memory of how he got there. The reincarnation had started too early, before he could understand it. His mind fractured between the life he had lived in another world—the world of screens and stories—and this life, this body. The memories of the Arrowverse were not clear yet, but they were there, sleeping.
League assassins surrounded the child silently. Black hoods. Curved blades. No breath wasted.
Ra's al Ghul himself stepped forward.
He looked at the boy, studying him with ancient eyes. "You walked through the mountains alone," Ra's said. "You did not freeze. You did not scream. You did not flee from my assassins."
The boy stared up at him. His eyes were pale, cold, watching everything and nothing.
"What is your name, child?"
The boy tried to speak. His lips moved, forming a sound—Adri—
But the memory of that name was broken, lost in the breach between lives.
Ra's knelt, lowering himself to the boy's level. "You do not remember. Interesting."
The boy didn't respond.
Ra's placed a hand on his shoulder. "You will come with me."
The League did not question their leader's choice. They took the child inside, dried his clothes, fed him, and put him through trials that would break grown men.
He did not break.
Not once.
Not even when a blade cut his arm. Not even when they forced him to run across sharpened stone. Not even when they made him face older students who struck him until he could stand no longer.
The boy rose again every time. Silent. Unyielding.
Ra's watched him closely. "You have the will to survive," he said. "But will is not enough. Power must be forged."
Training began.
Years passed.
The boy grew into a young warrior—quiet, sharp, calculating. His senses sharpened faster than the other recruits'. He learned every weapon the League placed in his hands. Swords. Bows. Chains. Needles. His body adapted, his instincts flawless. As if he had already lived a life mastering these skills.
He fought with precision, calm, and a frightening efficiency that made older assassins step aside when he walked by.
But he still had no name.
Not the true one he had lost.
And not the one he had yet to earn.
His first major trial came when he was thirteen. Ra's summoned him and placed a blade in his hand.
"There is a traitor hiding in the lower mountains," Ra's said. "Take one weapon. Go alone. Bring me his ring or do not return."
The boy bowed his head. "Yes, Demon's Head."
He left Nanda Parbat under the pale moonlight, footsteps silent on the frozen cliffs.
The traitor was a former League master—faster, stronger, and far more experienced. When the boy found him, the traitor laughed.
"This is who Ra's sends? A child?"
The fight began.
The boy moved like a shadow—silent, precise. The traitor struck with lethal intent, but the boy adapted to every movement, every mistake, every shift in the terrain. He fought not with the blind rage of youth, but with the cold calculation of someone who remembered death and violence from a past life he had not yet fully understood.
Three minutes in, the traitor was on his knees, throat exposed.
"Who… what are you?" the traitor gasped.
The boy did not answer. He ended the fight quickly and returned to Nanda Parbat before dawn, placing the traitor's ring at Ra's feet.
Ra's studied him for a long moment before speaking.
"You crossed into the realm of death," Ra's said. "And you returned with its judgment."
The boy stood silently.
"You will have a name now," Ra's declared. "A name that echoes across shadows."
He placed a hand on the boy's head.
"Kharon."
The ferryman of the dead. The one who guided souls from life to death.
"You will deliver judgment as he does," Ra's said. "You will be the one feared in whispers. You will be the blade that balances the world."
Kharon bowed. "I accept."
From that day onward, the League spoke of him with caution. Some with awe. Some with fear. None with disrespect.
By sixteen, Ra's chose him as the future Demon's Head.
By eighteen, he surpassed every senior assassin.
By twenty, no one could defeat him—not even Nyssa.
But Ra's kept one truth locked away.
Kharon had come from the outside world.
He had once had another name.
A birth name.
Adrian Queen.
The first time Ra's spoke it aloud, the young assassin stiffened as fragmented memories slashed through him—memories of the Queen family, of a city called Starling, of a younger brother he had yet to meet.
Ra's placed a finger against Kharon's lips.
"That name is not for this world. It is not for the League. It is not for anyone but you and I. Until the time comes, it will be buried."
Kharon nodded without hesitation. "As you command."
Ra's smiled faintly. "One day, the Queen boy will walk a path that will cross yours. And when it does, destiny will reveal itself."
Kharon trained harder than ever after that.
The reincarnation memories sharpened with each year. He remembered the Arrowverse—not as fiction, but as a history he now lived inside. He remembered threats. Villains. Wars. The future.
He prepared for them all.
The Mirakuru infusion came next. A dangerous experiment. A test no one else had survived intact. Kharon endured it with a silent scream, fists clenched, body consumed in burning fire.
When it was over, he rose from the table stronger than any League warrior.
Stronger than Slade Wilson had ever been.
No madness.
No side effects.
No instability.
Perfected.
Ra's watched him with rare pride. "You are the weapon destiny intended."
From then on, Kharon was not simply a prodigy—
he was the deadliest force the League had ever created.
He carried out missions no other assassin dared attempt.
Ended wars before they began.
Eliminated corrupt kings, tyrants, and criminals.
Whispers spread.
The Ferryman.
The Shadow Blade.
The Demon's Chosen.
By twenty-seven, Ra's whispered the final prophecy into his ear.
"One day, Starling City will draw the League's eyes. And when it does, your path will begin."
Kharon bowed. "I am ready."
"You will not reveal yourself until I order it," Ra's warned. "You will watch. You will judge. The archer's fate is tied to yours."
Kharon's reincarnated memories surged. Oliver Queen. The man he knew from another life. His brother.
"I will obey," Kharon said.
And so, Kharon remained hidden.
Unseen.
Silent.
Waiting in shadows until the moment Ra's commanded the League to Starling.
Destiny moved closer with each day.
And Kharon was ready to walk the path fate had carved for him.
The mountains around Nanda Parbat were deathly quiet the night the League found him. Snow drifted through the cold air, settling on stone steps worn smooth by centuries of shadows. A child shivered at the base of the ancient fortress—small, alone, barely six years old, his clothing torn by travel and wind.
The boy had no memory of how he got there. The reincarnation had started too early, before he could understand it. His mind fractured between the life he had lived in another world—the world of screens and stories—and this life, this body. The memories of the Arrowverse were not clear yet, but they were there, sleeping.
League assassins surrounded the child silently. Black hoods. Curved blades. No breath wasted.
Ra's al Ghul himself stepped forward.
He looked at the boy, studying him with ancient eyes. "You walked through the mountains alone," Ra's said. "You did not freeze. You did not scream. You did not flee from my assassins."
The boy stared up at him. His eyes were pale, cold, watching everything and nothing.
"What is your name, child?"
The boy tried to speak. His lips moved, forming a sound—Adri—
But the memory of that name was broken, lost in the breach between lives.
Ra's knelt, lowering himself to the boy's level. "You do not remember. Interesting."
The boy didn't respond.
Ra's placed a hand on his shoulder. "You will come with me."
The League did not question their leader's choice. They took the child inside, dried his clothes, fed him, and put him through trials that would break grown men.
He did not break.
Not once.
Not even when a blade cut his arm. Not even when they forced him to run across sharpened stone. Not even when they made him face older students who struck him until he could stand no longer.
The boy rose again every time. Silent. Unyielding.
Ra's watched him closely. "You have the will to survive," he said. "But will is not enough. Power must be forged."
Training began.
Years passed.
The boy grew into a young warrior—quiet, sharp, calculating. His senses sharpened faster than the other recruits'. He learned every weapon the League placed in his hands. Swords. Bows. Chains. Needles. His body adapted, his instincts flawless. As if he had already lived a life mastering these skills.
He fought with precision, calm, and a frightening efficiency that made older assassins step aside when he walked by.
But he still had no name.
Not the true one he had lost.
And not the one he had yet to earn.
His first major trial came when he was thirteen. Ra's summoned him and placed a blade in his hand.
"There is a traitor hiding in the lower mountains," Ra's said. "Take one weapon. Go alone. Bring me his ring or do not return."
The boy bowed his head. "Yes, Demon's Head."
He left Nanda Parbat under the pale moonlight, footsteps silent on the frozen cliffs.
The traitor was a former League master—faster, stronger, and far more experienced. When the boy found him, the traitor laughed.
"This is who Ra's sends? A child?"
The fight began.
The boy moved like a shadow—silent, precise. The traitor struck with lethal intent, but the boy adapted to every movement, every mistake, every shift in the terrain. He fought not with the blind rage of youth, but with the cold calculation of someone who remembered death and violence from a past life he had not yet fully understood.
Three minutes in, the traitor was on his knees, throat exposed.
"Who… what are you?" the traitor gasped.
The boy did not answer. He ended the fight quickly and returned to Nanda Parbat before dawn, placing the traitor's ring at Ra's feet.
Ra's studied him for a long moment before speaking.
"You crossed into the realm of death," Ra's said. "And you returned with its judgment."
The boy stood silently.
"You will have a name now," Ra's declared. "A name that echoes across shadows."
He placed a hand on the boy's head.
"Kharon."
The ferryman of the dead. The one who guided souls from life to death.
"You will deliver judgment as he does," Ra's said. "You will be the one feared in whispers. You will be the blade that balances the world."
Kharon bowed. "I accept."
From that day onward, the League spoke of him with caution. Some with awe. Some with fear. None with disrespect.
By sixteen, Ra's chose him as the future Demon's Head.
By eighteen, he surpassed every senior assassin.
By twenty, no one could defeat him—not even Nyssa.
But Ra's kept one truth locked away.
Kharon had come from the outside world.
He had once had another name.
A birth name.
Adrian Queen.
The first time Ra's spoke it aloud, the young assassin stiffened as fragmented memories slashed through him—memories of the Queen family, of a city called Starling, of a younger brother he had yet to meet.
Ra's placed a finger against Kharon's lips.
"That name is not for this world. It is not for the League. It is not for anyone but you and I. Until the time comes, it will be buried."
Kharon nodded without hesitation. "As you command."
Ra's smiled faintly. "One day, the Queen boy will walk a path that will cross yours. And when it does, destiny will reveal itself."
Kharon trained harder than ever after that.
The reincarnation memories sharpened with each year. He remembered the Arrowverse—not as fiction, but as a history he now lived inside. He remembered threats. Villains. Wars. The future.
He prepared for them all.
The Mirakuru infusion came next. A dangerous experiment. A test no one else had survived intact. Kharon endured it with a silent scream, fists clenched, body consumed in burning fire.
When it was over, he rose from the table stronger than any League warrior.
Stronger than Slade Wilson had ever been.
No madness.
No side effects.
No instability.
Perfected.
Ra's watched him with rare pride. "You are the weapon destiny intended."
From then on, Kharon was not simply a prodigy—
he was the deadliest force the League had ever created.
He carried out missions no other assassin dared attempt.
Ended wars before they began.
Eliminated corrupt kings, tyrants, and criminals.
Whispers spread.
The Ferryman.
The Shadow Blade.
The Demon's Chosen.
By twenty-seven, Ra's whispered the final prophecy into his ear.
"One day, Starling City will draw the League's eyes. And when it does, your path will begin."
Kharon bowed. "I am ready."
"You will not reveal yourself until I order it," Ra's warned. "You will watch. You will judge. The archer's fate is tied to yours."
Kharon's reincarnated memories surged. Oliver Queen. The man he knew from another life. His brother.
"I will obey," Kharon said.
And so, Kharon remained hidden.
Unseen.
Silent.
Waiting in shadows until the moment Ra's commanded the League to Starling.
Destiny moved closer with each day.
And Kharon was ready to walk the path fate had carved for him.