Marek swung his foot, aiming for his attacker's midsection, only for a hand to block his attack. He quickly adjusted his stance and dropped low, swiping his feet to trip the man standing before him. The man casually leapt over the leg, kicking Marek away. He tanked the blow and his three-tomoe sharingan spun, cataloguing the man's fighting style to memory. Bit by bit, Marek could feel his own taijutsu prowess beginning to rise
"Jealous of my own son's potential", his assailant spoke, "I'm afraid of being outdone… by a five-year-old"
Marek's lips curled in disgust
'Born to a f**king murderer'
He shifted his stance low, then lashed out—an open palm slicing toward his father's throat. The strike barely grazed the man before a punishing blow crashed into Marek's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered but refused to cry out. He wouldn't give Constantine the satisfaction
Pain seared through his side, but he stood tall, red eyes blazing
Then rage took over, and Marek abandoned technique, discipline, and everything he'd been taught. He lunged—teeth bared like a feral animal
Constantine hadn't expected that, "Demon!", the man howled as Marek clamped down on his hand, tearing at his fingers like a rabid dog. Blood spattered across the floor
"I had a job tonight, you animal!" he shouted, booting his son across the room
Marek hit the floor hard. Before he could rise, Constantine was on him—raining down blows, each one calculated for maximum pain. He struck the nerve points, the soft tissue, and the gaps between ribs. Marek gasped, grunted, and bled—but he never screamed
He just stared. Watching his father with those unnatural, red-dotted eyes
He was born Marek Drakon. Son of Constantine Drakon and the assassin codenamed Hummingbird. A legacy child of monsters
'A legacy supervillain', The thought twisted in his gut
He had once been excited, even thrilled, when he realized what world he was in. A world of heroes, of powers, of possibility. The moment of discovery was still clear in his memory—absurdly vivid. He'd been seven months old, strapped into a high chair as his mother slid a bowl of mashed peas in front of him. The television played in the background
A news anchor's voice recounted the miraculous rescue of a passenger plane mid-crash
"Superman intervened just in time…"
Marek froze. Eyes wide. Superman?
That meant—
'I'm in DC', he realized, as clarity crashed into his infant mind
Then his mother scoffed, nearly hurling the spoon,"I hate those damn glory hogs"
His mother's biting remarks and his father's endless absences left him uneasy. It wasn't until he caught a news report—his father's arrest by Star City's vigilante, the Green Arrow—that the pieces finally clicked into place. His father, was the infamous killer Constantine Drakon
For a fleeting moment, Marek clung to hope. Maybe, just maybe, his parents could change. Maybe they would be different for him
So on his second birthday, with all the innocent conviction of a child who believed in miracles, he declared, "I WANT TO BE A HERO"
Constantine beat him senseless, each strike a brutal reminder of his place. His mother watched nearby, her eyes glinting with a twisted mix of arousal and dark fascination. That day—and the two agonizing days that followed—he was locked away in a pitch-black room, with nothing but a pitcher of water to sustain him. No food, no comfort
He cradled his broken arm, as tears streamed down his face. Exhaustion finally claimed him, when his sobs went unanswered. His vicious parents showed no care
And it was in that darkness, through the haze of pain and despair, that something within him stirred
It was the day he unlocked his Sharingan
The darkness didn't frighten him in the slightest—not when a flicker of flame could illuminate the shadows around him. His firebending had been with him all his life, a secret he fiercely guarded from the sadists who now held him captive
From that day forward, Constantine became his relentless taskmaster. He drilled him endlessly—how to fight with brutal efficiency, how to shoot and throw with deadly precision, how to run without leaving a trace
He taught him the cruel arts of silent killing and torture. How to wield knives with lethal grace, how to shoot guns and arrows with unerring accuracy. Every lesson was a reminder: survival meant becoming a weapon
His mother, Hummingbird, had her own curriculum—just as twisted, and just as meticulous. She taught him the art of traps and explosives, how to turn everyday objects into instruments of chaos
She taught him how to lie with a smile, how to twist words like a dagger, and how to break someone's spirit with nothing but a whisper. To her, Marek wasn't a son—he was a project
The day the news anchors mourned the deaths of seventeen innocent people—victims of a bomb he had helped his mother build—was the day Marek's Sharingan evolved, gaining its second tomoe
He remembered the footage: burning rubble, crying children, smoke curling into the sky like fingers of guilt. He remembered the silence in the room as his mother smiled faintly, satisfied with their work
Marek felt no pride. Only sickness
Even now, the guilt clung to him like ash in his lungs, refusing to fade. Seventeen lives—snuffed out by his hands. His Sharingan grew stronger that day, but so did the weight on his soul
A year and a half later, during yet another brutal training session, something inside Marek finally snapped
Cursed Energy surged through him like a wildfire, raw and violent. In a single, reflexive strike, he drew blood from his father for the first time. That day the training was particularly torturous
Later, alone and aching from the aftermath, Marek discovered something even greater. His innate technique had revealed itself: Black Bird Manipulation
It was subtle at first—a whisper in his mind, a pull toward the sky. Soon, he was able to control the crows nearby, their wings laced with his cursed will. With them, he watched the world beyond his prison
Families laughing as they strolled through the nearby park. Children licking ice cream cones outside the parlor six blocks away. Lovers holding hands under fading streetlights
He saw it all—quietly, distantly—from above
His technique became more than a weapon. It was his solace. His eyes in the sky
Through them, Marek could see the world as a bird would——freely
The first outsider Marek ever met was a man named David Cain—a living legend in the world of killers, and just as brutal as his father. Like Constantine, Cain didn't waste words. He communicated through fists, blades, and bruises, but there was a difference. Cain wasn't fighting just to dominate him—he was studying him. Every movement, every breath, every reaction Marek gave was analyzed, and it didn't take long for Cain to uncover the truth:
After every battle, every training session, every savage beating—
Marek got stronger, faster, tougher, and sharper
Cain watched the boy's wounds knit together quicker each time, observed how his pain tolerance climbed to inhuman levels. Where most would break, Marek adapted. He didn't just endure—he evolved
"Aren't you a special tyke", Cain maliciously grinned as he and Constantine strapped Marek down to the metal table. The restraints bit into his wrists and ankles, but no amount of thrashing could free him. No amount of pleading worked
They ignored his screams, and tears
Scalpels glinted under harsh light as they carved into him—extracting bone marrow, spinal fluid, and different bodily samples. The pain was unbearable, searing through every nerve like fire. He begged them to stop, his voice raw and broken, but their hands never hesitated. They treated him like a specimen
That day marked the death of whatever innocence remained in him, and Marek vowed that he would kill David Cain and his father. No matter how long it took
In the middle of the agony, his third tomoe clicked into place