Dr. Fate hovered mid-air, hands still pulsing with radiant energy, caught in the loop of his own spell. Samuel didn't waste a second.

[Samuel used Substitute.]

In an instant, he vanished—his form flickering out of existence, replaced by a small green doll on the ground. It was his new move he just learned after the fight against Abra, and it sure was handy.

Fate's glowing eyes narrowed.

"Hiding will only delay the inevitable," he said, his voice echoing with celestial disdain.

Samuel didn't answer.

From somewhere unseen—

[Samuel used Sand Attack.]

A cloud of grit and dust swept across the chamber, blinding and sharp. Fate recoiled slightly, trying to track the source.

[Samuel used Sand Attack.]

More sand blasted across the space. The Lord of Order turned just as the Encore effect wore off, his spell-loop breaking. He snapped back to full awareness—and immediately scanned the room.

Nothing.

No Samuel.

Until he saw it.

The doll.

His hand surged with golden power. One blast, fast and clean, obliterated the substitute in a burst of light.

Samuel reappeared instantly from the shadows behind it.

[Samuel used Sand Attack.]

Another cloud of dust hit Fate full in the face. His glow sputtered for half a second as he reeled.

The two locked eyes.

Samuel knew he couldn't win head-on. So he didn't try.

Fate rushed in, hands glowing bright. Samuel barely moved.

A golden blast fired at point-blank range—

—and missed.

Samuel sidestepped cleanly.

[Samuel used Yawn.]

A slow ripple passed between them, a wave of drowsy energy curling through the air. Fate flinched—his movements already beginning to lag.

Samuel raised a hand.

[Samuel used Protect.]

A translucent barrier snapped into place just as the next attack hit. The energy collided against the shield and scattered.

Fate faltered, mid-air—then drifted slightly… slower…

And then—

He dropped.

Asleep.

But Samuel knew it wouldn't last.

[Samuel used Sand Attack.]

Again. And again.

By the time Fate stirred awake, his accuracy was shot. He blinked under the helmet, furious, golden power flaring around him in a roar.

He fired.

Missed.

Again.

Samuel darted left, heart pounding. He couldn't keep this up forever.

Even Burn wouldn't do enough—Fate would just heal. He needed something that could end this. Knock him out. Disable him completely.

Not kill.

Just win.

[Samuel used Substitute.]

Another doll. His health dropped, but it was worth it. One hit would destroy him—but the doll would buy him a moment.

Fate blasted again—still wide. His vision was off. His aim scrambled. And now, Samuel had his window.

From the shadows, he heard Aqualad's voice in his mind—broadcast via Miss Martian's telepathic link.

"Samuel, the team is back online. But the bell—it won't open anymore."

Samuel stared up at Fate, who was blasting wildly at the substitute, golden bolts lighting the room like a warzone.

"I got this," Samuel muttered.

And then—

He moved.

[Samuel used Metronome.]

His fingers glowed white.

Energy swirled around him, wild, chaotic—pulling from the void, from the infinite bank of possibility.

Fate paused, sensing the shift.

The air cracked.

The tower pulsed.

And Metronome triggered...

[Samuel used Astonish.]

[It was Super Effective!]

He leapt forward and clapped near Fate's helmet with a sharp bang! The Lord of Order flinched—but barely. No real damage.

'There was nothing super effective about that...'

Samuel landed and ducked as another golden bolt screamed overhead.

[Samuel used Metronome.]

[Samuel used Fairy Wind.]

[It was Super Effective!]

A soft pink gust puffed against Fate's armor, fluttering his cloak slightly like a breeze on laundry day. Samuel gritted his teeth. Super effective? He had no idea what that meant, but it definitely wasn't super effective.

"Are you kidding me?"

[Samuel used Metronome.]

[Samuel used Flamethrower.]

[It wasn't very effective...]

A stream of fire shot from his palm, licking at Fate's body. Flames scorched part of the armor—minor, but it was something... No, it was nothing. The scorched part just healed itself immediately.

The Lord of Order stopped floating.

"You persist," Fate's voice echoed, layered and cold. "Then face this."

He raised both arms—and unleashed it.

A golden force wave erupted outward, wide and impossible to dodge. Aimed to crush.

Samuel didn't flinch.

The Substitute took the blow.

The green doll was flung across the chamber, bursting into fragments of smoke and light. Gone.

Samuel was already sprinting back, heart pounding.

Then came the second attack.

A rapid barrage of magical missiles, each one aimed with unrelenting precision.

One slammed into his shoulder—then another to his side. A third grazed his leg, knocking him into the ground.

Pain. Real and raw.

It was his luck. Even after lowering that much accuracy, he still got hit.

His lungs burned. But he forced himself to stand.

He had one last gamble.

[Samuel used Metronome.]

Power swirled at random.

[Samuel used Knock Off.]

His hand surged with black force, violent and raw. Aimed not to kill—but to strip away.

Samuel lunged.

He struck.

[It's Super Effective!]

[Samuel knocked off Wally's Helmet of Nabu!]

The Helmet of Fate rang out with a metallic crack—then flew off, spinning into the air.

Light exploded from the floating armor. Golden energy unraveled.

And Wally West dropped like a stone, hitting the floor with a solid thud.

Unconscious.

But free.

The Helmet of Nabu clattered across the ground—and landed at Samuel's feet.

He stood there, panting, bruised, one hand clutching his side, the other glowing faintly from the aftershock of the blow.

He looked down at the helmet.

"You don't get to steal anyone else," he muttered.

The eyes of the helmet flickered.

But it didn't speak.

Not this time.


The golden light faded.

The tower, once humming with divine pressure, now hung in a heavy, near-silent stillness.

Samuel stood over the helmet, chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. Behind him, footsteps echoed—rushed, relieved, scattered across the stone.

The team had arrived.

Aqualad, Miss Martian, Superboy, and Artemis. All scratched up, a little bruised—but standing.

"Samuel!" Miss Martian called out, rushing forward.

Wally stirred on the floor, groaning. "Ugh… what the hell…"

His eyes opened, squinting against the fading light. His body trembled, just a little. But he was back.

Free.

He remembered what Kent Nelson had told him and what Fate had tried to do. But now he was in complete control of his body again.

Miss Martian kneeled beside Samuel, her hands shaking as she clumsily tried to tend the wounds.

Samuel pushed away her wrist, gently but firmly.

"I got it."

[Samuel used Recover.]

A flash of soft white energy rippled across his skin. Bruises faded. His torn shirt stitched at the edges, ribs cracked back into place. He exhaled slowly, like pulling himself back together.

Wally pushed himself up to sit, rubbing his head.

"You saved me," he said, blinking at Samuel. "Dude… he was actually gonna take over forever. I could feel it. He was talking about fate and destiny and balance and all that cosmic mumbo-jumbo. tried to help, but Nabu just sent him away!... Thanks, man."

He looked over to the helmet still lying on the floor. Then walked over, picked it up slowly.

"…Still. Gonna keep it. Souvenir."

Samuel sat up, expression unreadable.

He watched Wally laugh a little under his breath—relieved, trying to joke through it.

But Samuel wasn't laughing.

Not at all.

What Nabu had said kept replaying in his head:

"You are not of this world… your power does not belong here."

Alien origin.

Outside the rules of this universe.

A multiverse?

Or something worse?

Something deeper?

He didn't know.

But the words clung to his mind like a splinter he couldn't reach. Just like that dream—the one when he used Explosion. That, too, had felt… wrong. Too vivid. Too real.

A voice he couldn't understand.

Power he couldn't control.

Samuel glanced down at his hand, then to the helmet in Wally's.

Dr. Fate was gone—for now.

But whatever he saw in Samuel?

That wasn't over.

Not even close.

[Samuel Learned Magic Room!]


Samuel spent the next few days buried in files—digging through the Justice League database, scanning mission reports, archived footage, and field logs.

He was looking for patterns. Weaknesses. Anything.

Magic.

It wasn't like other powers. There was no set logic, no rules you could map out like physics or biology. Just chaos given shape through will and words. And the people who used it—Wotan, Felix Faust, Blackbriar Thorn—weren't just powerful. They were destructive. Every one of them had left scars on the world. Cities torn apart. Lives lost. Real consequences.

And then there was Dr. Fate. The supposed counterweight.

The files showed his presence in multiple crises… but the data told a different story.

There weren't fewer magic villains because of him.

If anything, there were more.

Some came to challenge him directly. Others, simply drawn by the idea of fighting a god. The helmet might've scared off small-time spellcasters, sure—but it also invited something worse: escalation.

Samuel rubbed his temples.

According to one report, a summoning in England had brought a full-on demon into London's underground. Somewhere else, a cursed artifact turned a public school into a pocket dimension. He read about monsters born from failed pacts, living shadows feeding on forgotten contracts, and of course, Felix Faust trying to drain a leyline in South America.

Aqualad had been right—magic wasn't rare. In Atlantis, it was the foundation of society. Magic there was like plumbing or public transport. Which meant magical crimes happened there just like anywhere else.

Samuel leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen as a dull headache began to form.

There was no real containment strategy.

Superpowers, you could counter. You could build prisons, suppression collars, traps, protocols.

But magic?

Half of it wasn't even recorded. The other half didn't play by the same rules.

And the more he read, the more he realized—

The League didn't have a plan for this.

Not really.

There were only a few "magic types" on call. Fate. Zatara...Some Atlanteans.

That was it.

Samuel shut the file and sat in silence.

Too many gaps.

Too many threats.

And barely anyone looking ahead.

He didn't have an answer yet.

But he was starting to see the shape of the problem.

And he didn't like it.

Though his long-term plans weren't exactly falling into place, Samuel's daily life was… peaceful.

He skipped another mission.

This time, it was Batman's order—to capture a new villain operating in Gotham. Something made of clay, apparently. "Clayface."

Samuel didn't need more details.

He wasn't interested in chasing shapeshifting monsters through Gotham's alleys, and he definitely wasn't going to get knee-deep in whatever chemical-infested sewer water that thing lived in. So he stayed put.

Wise move.

Because when the rest of the team came crawling back to the base hours later, they looked like they had barely survived an industrial swamp. Soggy uniforms. Boots ruined. Covered head-to-toe in gray-brown sludge that smelled like old meat left in the sun. Apparently, they'd all failed—badly. Batman had to step in and pull them out before they drowned in a collapsing tunnel. Then he singlehandedly subdued the villain in a few seconds...Which probably made the team feel even more useless.

Samuel gave them a passing glance and kept eating his sandwich.

He knew that smell. He'd been there once. Never again.

Aqualad looked the worst—not just physically, but mentally. His body was present, but his mind wasn't. Quiet. Distant. Haunted, even.

Samuel noticed.

He just didn't care enough to ask.

Instead, he kept digging into what he could control. Research.

The tech side of the Justice League was mostly off-limits to him. Half the files were redacted, the other half password-locked. But that didn't stop him. With a little logic and time, Samuel started putting the pieces together. Comparing historical data, watching timelines of events, identifying power surges, appearance records—if a hero showed up with some new ability, he tracked the change.

Most of the patterns were useless. Turns out, a lot of heroes either just had powers or got them through science accidents so ridiculous they might as well be magic. Radioactive spiders. Alien DNA. Time anomalies.

But sometimes, if you looked closely enough, you could tell where the tech came from. Or who designed the gear.

It was slow progress.

But it was progress.

Then he heard it.

"Samuel? Samuel!"

He looked up. It was Miss Martian..

Samuel blinked and looked up from the console.

She hovered by the door, apron half-tied, smiling awkwardly. "We're making dinner. Want to help?"

He didn't answer. Just raised his arm and pointed at the fridge.

Miss Martian tilted her head, confused, then floated over and opened it.

Inside, neatly packed in glass containers, were rows of grilled lemon herb chicken, roasted vegetables, and brown rice, all still warm.

"Oh. You already cooked." She smiled again, softer this time. "Thanks, Samuel."

She turned and called out, "Superboy! Dinner's ready!"

Samuel turned back to his screen immediately. No interest in watching Miss Martian stumble over herself blushing every time Superboy so much as chewed. That awkward flirty energy made him want to phase through the floor.

He dove deeper into the files.


One-on-one, he did end up talking to Batman about what had happened with Fate.

He hadn't said a word about it at first—but Wally had been on a rampage, telling anyone who'd listen how Dr. Fate nearly fried Samuel and tried to hijack his body.

So when Batman called him in, Samuel didn't fight it.

"He didn't like my power," Samuel had said flatly, arms crossed. "Guess I rubbed the helmet the wrong way."

No jokes. No emotion. Just facts.

Batman didn't say anything, either. Just stared at him with that usual stoneface.

Samuel stared back.

Conversation over.

Time passed. Mundane, steady days. Nothing explosive.

Then, Aqualad returned.

Refreshed. Focused. A little more like himself.

Apparently, a trip to Atlantis had done wonders for him.

Samuel couldn't relate. He was more drained than ever, buried in books and dusty files. After getting through tech, science, and magical theory, now he had to research myths. Greek. Norse. Egyptian. Half the world's strongest heroes and villains seemed to be playing out ancient stories with new costumes.

He flipped a page. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes.

Wally nudged him. "Dude. You look like a vampire."

"I'm fine."

Anyways, since it was time for another mission, Batman stood before them, arms behind his back, ready to brief.

"The Watchtower detected an immense power surge in the Bialyan desert—"


Samuel's eyes snapped open.

The sky above him was clear—brilliant with stars. No ceiling. No walls. Just a vast, open night. He blinked against the dry wind brushing over his face. The air was hot, the ground beneath him coarse and warm.

He sat up slowly.

Sand.

Endless dunes in every direction.

A sharp, burning wind swept over the desert, kicking up grains of sand around his legs. No buildings. No roads. No people. Just silence and starlight.

Samuel frowned.

What... the hell?

Where was he?

Why was he here?

He scanned the horizon for any sign of civilization or at least something familiar. But nothing. Only darkness and shifting sand.

He checked his clothes—worn and dusty, but not his usual hoodie-and-slippers combo. These were tougher. Functional. Like someone going on some kind of mission. A part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity. He didn't go on missions. He barely left the house.

The last thing he remembered… was being home.

Yeah. He'd been at home. Sitting in that old living room. Lights off. Same old routine. Same dead silence. Same denial, looping over and over like white noise.

Now he was here.

Just… here.

And something about that felt wrong.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like a crash or a burst of energy or a voice yelling his name.

Just… wrong.

Like the world had skipped a beat and didn't bother to tell him.

Samuel stood, brushing the sand off his hands. There was no immediate fear in him—just that creeping discomfort. Like waking up on the wrong bus, hours from your stop. Like hearing your name from a voice you're sure you've never met.

His body felt... weirdly used. Like it had been doing something. Moving. Fighting. Like a soreness that didn't match the life he remembered living.

He looked around again.

Still nothing but stars and silence.

…The stars.

Samuel narrowed his eyes, staring upward. The constellations were sharp. Familiar. That was Orion over there. And to the left—yep, there's Sirius, just above the horizon. His fingers twitched, doing quick mental math, tracing positions.

February.

It was still February, right?

That's what the stars told him. That's what his brain was sure of.

But something was off.

The air felt hotter than it should be. More dry. The wind too sharp, like the height of summer.

He turned slowly in place. Dune after dune. No real elevation. No coastlines.

He muttered, "Latitude's too far south...and too far east."

And then it clicked.

He stopped, eyes blank for a moment.

"…No."

A second round of calculation. He ran it back—faster this time. Stars, temperature, wind patterns. He knew enough. Geography and astronomy weren't hobbies, they were his way of grounding himself. And everything told him one thing.

It wasn't February.

It was August.

He blinked hard.

Six months.

He'd lost six months.

He staggered back a step, breath short. What the hell happened to him? Where had he been? How had he even gotten here?

He turned again, scanning for answers—and caught sight of it.

A jeep. Far out, maybe half a mile. Crawling across the sand. Soldiers in desert camo clung to it, rifles slung lazily—but not too lazily. A mounted gun glinted under the moonlight.

Samuel's breath hitched.

Bialya.

He remembered the name now. A rogue state. Dictatorship. Armed patrols in the desert. No love for outsiders. Especially not random teens with unknown affiliations wandering their sands.

He lowered his body, pressing into the slope of a dune.

Couldn't stay here.

Qurac was west of here. A neighboring country with marginally better odds of not getting shot for existing.

Still confused. Still dazed. Still unsure if any of this was even real—

But he had to move.

So Samuel exhaled through his nose, pushed down the questions, and started walking.

Quiet. Low. Toward the dark, distant line of the horizon.

Toward Qurac.