Unknownfate
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Chapter 164
🕑 Added 2025-06-20 11:56:41 +0000 UTCLeaving the underground catacombs, we breathed in the fresh air, even if it was still foul and polluted compared to Camelot, though far better than the smell of a city like Lyon would have had back in my time.
The City was still in chaos, dozens of buildings were burning, and firefighters were struggling to contain the flames. Police were working hard to evacuate people from other buildings that were at risk of catching fire.
All this was made far more difficult due to the monsters, or as I knew, demons killing everyone they could find.
Thankfully, the number of demons around was just a fraction of what I had been before we entered the bowels of the city. With no new reinforcement and with Lancelot and others killing them.
Lancelot, in particular, was doing good work there; I could see demons cleaved in half by swords everywhere, his work.
But he wasn’t alone, I could see many traces of fights everywhere, and I had great confidence in Lancelot, even without using Arondight, he wouldn’t have to fight the demons, he would slaughter them.
So all those killed after a fight, well, those were the result of someone else.
And those people, they were the key to my plan.
“Come, Mordred, let's find Lancelot and learn what happened here while we were in hell.” I quickly scanned the area for clues and went in the direction of the demonic death screams.
“What do you mean while we were in hell? We are in France! This is hell.” Mordred replied cockily as she followed behind, arms behind her head.
I didn’t dignify her with a response.
It wasn’t that she was wrong, per se—France had certainly fallen far—but there were more important matters than indulging her sense of humor.
The demons had nearly broken through into Earth, and this city would be the first to fall… if it hadn’t been for us.
Or maybe The Ancient One would have done more, I hadn’t seen her around, but given that Kaecilius was still following me around, I suspected she had her eyes on the situation.
And damn, it was strange, having the face of Mads Mikkelsen follow me around like a stalker…
Still, while the tide had turned, and Lyon was saved, and all of Earth, or at least France had been spared, what had happened here would be hard to hide.
Back before I made magic public knowledge it might have been hidden, it was entirely possible that should something like this happen, The Ancient One could use the big world wide memory wipe spell, but now?
There was no need for such things; instead, this would likely serve the same function as Loki had played.
Not his invasion, but his attack on Thor, the Destroyer being true to its name on some small rural town.
That would push Fury into doing reckless things, things he might already be doing due to me, but now? He would do even more.
Maybe even the Avengers would become a thing, because the ones fighting here in Lyon tonight weren't policemen, it wasn’t soldiers. Those could do little against demons.
No, it was mostly mutants, people with superpowers, magic, enhanced people who did the real fighting. This would be seen, and people in power would likely realize that they needed teams of their own.
People who could handle things like what happened here.
Tonight would be a warning and a wake-up call.
Many would try to use it for their own ends, but honestly, that wasn’t my problem.
I would handle Morgana, and that, well, that was enough, wasn’t it?
After walking for about fifteen minutes, we finally reached an area where fighting still happened. At this point, police knew better than to even try, so they stayed away. Only a few people still fought.
And, surprisingly enough, this one used a gun. Well, a gun and a knife, and they seemed to have much more success with said knife.
Mordred immediately perked up at the sight.
“Oho? Someone actually standing up and fighting back? He can’t be French,” Mordred quipped. Despite the jab, she still drew Clarent II and opened fire, clearly more interested in showing off than helping.
I turned my gaze to the strange figure she was assisting—or perhaps showing off to. It was difficult to tell what he was beneath the full-body white combat suit. The outfit clashed with the night’s gloom, glowing faintly in the firelight of burning buildings and the chaos of circling demons.
Mordred laughed as she charged in beside him, slicing through enemies with theatrical ease. I remained where I stood, watching.
Though I couldn’t confirm the figure’s gender with certainty, the tightness of the suit and the lack of any feminine silhouette led me to assume he was male.
Whoever he was, he was clearly enhanced. He moved too fast, struck too hard, and fought too precisely to be an ordinary human. His technique was clean—disciplined. He was skilled, no doubt. Not on the level of my knights, not even close, but competent. Experienced. Brave.
And reckless.
He took risks no normal man would. Leapt headlong into danger. That told me he wasn’t relying on luck—he had some form of power, something that let him play closer to the edge without falling.
I also couldn’t help but admire the coat.
Long, white, and clearly custom-made to match the rest of his ensemble. It reminded me of my own, albeit less regal. Still, it was proof of something I already knew: style mattered. A proper long coat was essential if one wished to look truly heroic.
The last demon fell with a sharp, strangled shriek—its head cleanly bisected by a slash from the man’s knife, a motion so fluid it might have been choreographed. Mordred didn’t even bother finishing her own kill before holstering Clarent II and striding over like a kid approaching their favorite arcade machine.
“You’re not bad,” she said, hands on her hips, cocky grin in full bloom. “For someone who doesn’t shout while killing things.”
The white-clad man tilted his head slightly. “You prefer screaming?” His voice was smooth, with a hint of an accent—French, likely, though it was muddied by something else, something fabricated. Synthetic, almost.
“I prefer style,” Mordred replied, brushing a smudge of ash from her cheek with her thumb. “And guns. You’ve got both, so you pass.”
He gave a short, exaggerated bow, clearly unbothered. “Fantomex. At your service.” He turned slightly to glance in my direction, visor hiding his expression.
“And you two must be the better-looking parts of the trio of people who made a mess over in Orléans.”
Mordred’s grin widened, clearly pleased. “See? He gets it. He even has a name that sounds fake, so he must be cool.”
I stepped forward at last, letting my coat settle behind me in a practiced sweep. “That was good work,” I said simply.
Fantomex shrugged as he reloaded his pistol with smooth, economical movements. “Not as good as yours. Seen the trail you two left behind, those guns of yours are way beyond anything on the market.”
I felt his gaze on Secace Morgan as the large gun rested on my shoulder. He didn’t ask, despite his curiosity and desire; he was smart, it seemed.
“Well, not everyone can be as good as me and Father.” Mordred said proudly while pointing her thumb at me.
Fantomex raised an eyebrow for a moment, but shook his head. “While it seems like things are slowing down, it's best not to celebrate too early. Still plenty of these monsters about, but with you two, it shouldn’t take too long to finish them off.”
“What do you say, Mordred? Wanna go along with this mysterious masked gunslinger? Or would you rather we go on alone? I asked my eager son.
“Mordred? Like the bloody knight of Albion? Terror of Camelot?” Fantomex couldn’t help but ask.
“What about it?!” Mordred shot back, glaring at him, as if daring him to annoy her.
“Nothing… just…” He looked between the two of us. “If you are Mordred, and you call her.” He pointed at me. “Father, then I assume you go by one Arthuria Pendragon?”
I gave a simple nod. “That is correct.”
Fantomex tilted his head. There was no sudden gasp, no reverent bow, just a faint chuckle that sounded more like a scoff. “Of course you are.”
Mordred narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He raised both hands in mock surrender. “Nothing at all. I get you, those two are highly popular these days, no doubt the strongest women around, I get you admire them… but I don’t know… wouldn’t armor and swords be better than guns?”
Mordred snorted and slapped the side of Clarent II, her expression caught between pride and exasperation. “Blame her,” she said, jerking a thumb at me. “Clarent II was a gift. Was I not meant to use it?”
I said nothing, because she wasn’t wrong.
Fantomex glanced at the weapon on her back, its design clearly more complex than anything he had seen, and its power was immense. While his gun could barely tickle those monsters, he had seen how that gun could kill them with ease.
“You don’t think I could commission something like that? My own gun could use an upgrade or two.” He said, suddenly feeling embarrassed for his own gun.
I shook my head. “I had to deal with Tony Stark for him to make that one, so unless you think you can move him, I doubt I can help you.”
Despite his mask, I could tell he winced at that comment. Because I had very purposefully misled him.
When a beautiful woman talked about dealing with someone like Tony Stark, there would only be one thing people had in mind, and he didn’t think he could achieve the same.
Instead, he looked over at Mordred. “Lucky kid, I wish I had parents who care about me that much.” He sighed. “But what will it be?”
Mordred grinned wide enough to flash teeth. “Sure. Lead the way, Fantômas.”
“It’s Fantomex,” he corrected mildly, but there was no edge in his tone—just a faint amusement. He turned and vaulted onto the hood of a scorched car, scanning the ruined street with the easy grace of someone used to dodging bullets.
We followed.
The next pack of demons came around a collapsing storefront, howling with hungry rage, half their bodies aflame, yet still animated by fury.
Fantomex opened fire first—three shots, all to center mass. The bullets hit, staggered the beast, but didn’t drop it. He switched angles, fired again, then pulled his knife and danced to the side as one charged.
Mordred didn’t wait. Clarent II lit up like a miniature sun, and with a single pull of the trigger, the leading demon was reduced to steaming chunks. Another tried to flank her—she shot it through the skull without even looking.
I stepped past them both and raised Secace Morgan.
One shot.
Seven demons evaporated in a horizontal line of blessed energy, their roars dying before they could scream.
Fantomex paused mid-slash, staring at the smoking ruin. “...Show-offs.”
Mordred blew on the barrel of her weapon as if she were in an old western. “Told you. Style.”
He didn’t argue.
We cleared another street in under two minutes, Fantomex managing to take down a single demon with considerable effort, while Mordred and I moved like lightning, precise and devastating.
Eventually, the roars grew distant, the chaos waned, and we crested a small rise where the fires illuminated a barricade of overturned vehicles. #3
Figures stood on the far side—some visibly injured, some exhausted, but alive. They weren’t police. They weren’t military. They were something else.
At the front stood Lancelot.
His coat was scorched, he was covered in soot and blood, though not his own. He looked like he had been through hell. Which was funny because we had been in literal hell, and we didn’t look as beat as him.
“Look at you! What’s happened? A few demons too much for you?” Mordred mocked him loudly, laughing openly at his appearance.
(End of chapter)
