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."