Unknownfate
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Chapter 109
🕑 Added 2025-04-25 16:16:42 +0000 UTCI decided to take a normal plane to India rather than teleporting us. And while it was a private plane, it was still a long trip. But it did allow me to get to know the two Eternals better.
And it gave Sprite the time she needed to fully convey her desire for my reward to Sersi. Having lived together for so long, Sersi was aware of it.
But it was highly likely that she didn’t fully understand it.
How could she?
Sprite wasn’t a child, despite her looks. She wouldn’t fully show her weakness to others, not when she wanted respect. She didn’t want to be treated as a child, so she didn’t cry like one.
But now, with a solution before her, she could finally fully tell Sersi of the true depth of her desire, of her suffering.
And I needed them both focused on helping me find and convince Phastos. He was my best bet.
If not him… I would only have one single solution left, to try to summon another servant. I had a grail, so it should be possible, but I knew that such an act took much more than just the grail.
After all, to summon something or someone, they needed to be in a state that could be summoned. And I knew that in the Marvel universe, there was no such thing as the Throne of Heroes.
So, how could I summon someone from it?
Naturally, I had been able to summon my Knights, so I might be able to summon others. But I had the best catalyst of all when I did that. I was in Camelot, near the Round Table, and I used my noble phantasms, and most importantly, I was there.
It was therefore entirely possible that the reason I could summon my knights was these things, which allowed me to, rather than merely summon them, create them from my memories.
It was a chilling thought that my knights weren’t real, weren’t themselves, but instead just copies made from how I saw them.
As long as I didn’t attempt to summon another servant, it would only remain as a possibility, but should I fail at summoning someone else, then it would be proved true.
And I was, afraid.
So I was unwilling, at least until I needed the option, because while success wasn’t certain until I tried, it was also an option.
And I liked having options.
But despite my thoughts of near existential dread, the trip was peaceful.
It was passed with some light chatter among the three of us, and massive amounts of mostly tasteless airplane food.
We also watched all of Kingo’s films, and they weren’t half bad…
Well half of them were horrible, some were funny, though I doubted that was by design, and a few were alright, one or two were good.
Yet even though most of them fell rather flat, they did have a certain charm to them.
I could somehow understand their local popularity and why they never became massive international hits.
Sprite had fallen asleep across two seats, curled up like a cat with a hoodie over her face. Sersi was watching the clouds, lost in her thoughts, her features unreadable.
I turned back to the tablet in my hand, watching the playback of Kingo’s latest film. A musical. Of course.
"Bollywood awaits," I murmured, amused.
The plane landed quietly just outside Mumbai, the sun already rising to cast gold over the smog-kissed horizon. No red carpets. No royal guards. Just the three of us, stepping off into the waking heat and the scent of a thousand spices.
And the sound of a million cars.
It honestly was deafening. Camelot had no cars, just the sound of people, and while it was loud, it was lively. This? This was pure chaos.
And not very nice at all.
“Are you sure about this?” Sersi asked, adjusting her sunglasses as we waited for the car I had arranged. “We could’ve sent someone ahead, at least. A courtesy.”
“Who could we have sent ahead? We came as fast as we could,” Sprite said, climbing into the backseat and immediately grabbing the aux cord. “Anyone would just have arrived with us.”
“She isn’t wrong, and I don’t have his number, and neither did either of you,” I said dryly as I slid into the passenger seat.
The driver looked confused as the doors closed. “Where to?”
I handed him a phone. “This studio. Or whichever location they’re using today. It’s for a film called The Flame of Arash.”
The man blinked. “That one? It’s Kingo’s. Big star! You fan?” he paused, looking over. “No, you must be an actor! Famous American, so pretty, here for a shoot with Kingo? Will watch this film, with you, will be good.”
He was quick to ask for an autograph, all while still driving the car. Something that would surely have had anyone not semi-immortal into a panic fit.
The drive through Mumbai was long and uneven, the car bouncing over potholes while honking formed its own chaotic language all around us. Sersi kept checking the route, while Sprite had fully claimed the aux cord and was now blasting a remix of Indian classical with synthwave beats.
I didn’t know whether to praise her taste or throw the speaker out the window.
It didn’t matter.
We finally pulled up to a walled-off complex ringed by painted billboards of Kingo’s face in various dramatic poses. He was holding a flaming sword in one. Riding a tiger in another. Shirtless in both.
“Subtle,” I muttered.
A handful of security guards lounged near the front gates. They perked up as we stepped out. And their eyes were all on me.
I didn’t blame them, I was very eye-catching.
Getting inside was surprisingly easy. As soon as I started speaking in perfect Marathi, they became incredibly kind and respectful. As soon as we said we were there for a meeting with Kingo, they were all too happy to help us on our way.
From their chatter, they too seemed to assume I was some kind of movie star here to work with Kingo, though I did hear a few whispers about Sprite possibly being a child between me and Kingo; their imagination didn’t lack anything.
The studio lot was alive with motion—costume runners darting between trailers, camera crews adjusting tripods, and half-dressed extras lounging in the shade, waiting for their next call. All around us, the world of cinema spun like a well-rehearsed illusion.
We were escorted by a production assistant who clearly thought we were VIPs, though she couldn’t quite place which studio we were from.
“Mr. Kingo is filming on Stage Three,” the assistant said as she led us around a corner, past a wall plastered with posters. “Today’s a heavy dialogue day—last scene before the dramatic montage. But you’re welcome to wait in the observation gallery.”
“Observation gallery?” I asked, curious.
She nodded. “It’s soundproof, air-conditioned, and stocked with snacks. You’ll have a full view of the stage.”
“Sure, let's see what old Kingo has been up to lately.” Sprite said as she eagerly followed along.
We were led into a narrow stairwell that opened into a mezzanine overlooking the stage. Thick glass separated us from the noise below. Inside, the production was in full swing: cameras, lights, and dramatic orchestral swells from unseen speakers.
And at the center of it all—Kingo.
Draped in layers of embroidered fabric, a fake sword at his hip and eyes full of manufactured longing, he recited a line to an equally glamorous co-star with all the sincerity of a Shakespearean lead.
“For in this flame, I see the shape of our souls,” he said, voice low and intense. “It burns, and so do I.”
Sprite wheezed. “He’s gotten worse.”
“I don’t know,” Sersi said, amused despite herself. “At least he’s consistent.”
I didn’t say anything. I merely watched. He had charisma, that much was clear. There was something noble buried beneath the glitter and artificial firelight. Something ancient that peeked through the theatrics. I could see why he once fought beside gods.
We waited through the final scene of the day, watched him nail a sword flourish and deliver a romantic speech on a sand-dusted set. When the director called, “That’s a wrap!” the room below erupted in applause.
Soon after, the assistant returned. “Mr. Kingo is done for the day. He’ll receive you in his private lounge. If you’ll follow me?”
We followed the assistant down a shaded corridor lined with awards, framed posters, and even a mural of Kingo wielding twin finger-guns against an alien army. It was absurd. Grand. Entirely him.
His private lounge sat behind a heavy velvet curtain rather than a door. It was theatrical, because of course it was.
The assistant swept the curtain aside. “He’s expecting you.”
Kingo’s changing room was a mix of glamour and chaos. Vintage furniture, mirrors rimmed in bulbs, racks of elaborate costumes, and a tower of protein bars and vitamin water stacked beside a signed photograph of himself. The man had somehow created a temple of self-branding.
He stood in the center, wrapped in a robe of golden silk, wiping off his stage makeup with a towel. His hair was still windswept from filming, and he looked up with an easy, practiced grin that faltered the moment he got a better look at us.
“Sersi?” he said, blinking. “Sprite? What are you two doing here?” he then turned his eyes to me. “And who is this beautiful woman.”
“Really, Kingo? We hadn’t seen one another for a few centuries, and this is the welcome we get? Our names? And then you turn your attention to the first pretty face you see?” Sersi deadpanned.
Kingo blinked, then winced, the grin faltering into something sheepish. “Okay, okay, you’re right—that came out wrong.” He threw his towel over his shoulder and stepped forward, arms half-raised like he was debating a hug. “I just wasn’t expecting... well, any of this. You two showing up again? And with her?”
“She,” Sprite said, pointing a thumb at me, “is Arthuria Pendragon. Also known as King Arthur—yes, that King Arthur. But you know… hotter. And female. And possibly divine?”
“...What?” Kingo stared.
“I know, right?” Sprite smirked. “It’s a whole thing.”
I gave him a small, graceful nod. “It is an honor to meet you, Kingo Sunen, the Firehanded Eternal.”
He looked between the three of us, a mix of shock and confusion on his face.
Kingo blinked. “Wait, wait, hold on—Firehanded Eternal?” He looked genuinely pleased, like someone had just correctly guessed his favorite title. “That’s new. I like it. Has a nice ring to it. Very mythic. But since you know the truth, is this for real? You are King Arthur?”
I willed up my armor, and with a bright glow, my body was now covered in it. gleaming plate on my body, a flowing white cape on my back, and a regal crown on my head. “I am Arthuria Pendragon, King of Albion, Ruler of Camelot, though let’s no start trading titles, or the four of us here could go all night.”
Kingo threw up his hands in exaggerated surrender. “Okay, okay—no title wars. You win. I’m not crazy enough to challenge a king. Especially one who can do all that, you really made the news around here.”
He gestured vaguely at my shining armor, still clearly struggling to process everything.
Sprite leaned back against the vanity, arms crossed smugly. “See? Told you she was legit.”
Sersi, more composed, gave Kingo a meaningful look. “We’re not here just to shock you. We need your help, Kingo. We’re trying to find Phastos.”
The excitement in his eyes dimmed a little, replaced by something more serious—older. He dropped the towel into a chair and straightened. “Phastos? And here I thought you were here to ask for an autograph or something, not just ask for my help.” He quickly went back to teasing them.
Though I could see that a burden had left his shoulders, he was happy with his life here, and was likely worried that Sersi and Sprite came here to bring him trouble, more so when I, the reborn King Arthur was here as well.
He had, after all, been rather reluctant in the movie, if I remembered correctly.
Kingo blinked again, then dropped into a nearby armchair with a groan. “So let me get this straight. You two ghost me for a few centuries—centuries—and now you show up out of nowhere with her and tell me you need my help?”
Sersi looked away, the guilt plain on her face. “We didn’t come just to ask for something.”
“But you are asking for something,” he said, not unkindly. “Don’t worry, I get it. It’s just... a lot.”
Sprite didn’t say anything at first. She was watching him with a strange mix of fondness and shame. Then, with a little shrug, she said, “We should’ve come sooner. I mean, you didn’t stop being one of us just because you got a fan club and a fake mustache.”
Kingo snorted. “It was a real mustache in the 1800s.”
“We missed you,” Sersi said quietly.
That seemed to take the wind out of his theatrical sails. He stared at the floor for a moment, then looked up with a softer expression.
“Yeah. I missed you too.”
I allowed them their little get together, after all, while they had their differences, they had been friends to so long, such friendships were precious.
“Alright, I think I understand why you are looking for Phastos, and while he isn’t the type to help humanity, that’s your problem, not mine, though I must say, Lady Pendragon, I do so hope you will star in a movie with me.
Normally, I don’t do knight and sword things, but for you? I’ll let you pick the plot.” Kingo didn’t hide the fact that he was shamelessly flirting with me.
“I’m afraid being a king is a fulltime job, though you are welcome to visit Camelot anytime.” I ignored his flirting and instead thanked him for his help.
For while he didn’t know where Phastos lived, he did give us a clue to another Eternal who might know.
And so, with great fanfare, we were escorted out and went back to the airport; this time, our destination was Down under.
(End of chapter)
So, Kingo, kinda liked him, might bring him back a lot more. I feel he could add some nice humor to things, not too serious.
Though, here he wasn’t too funny, given that I felt he should be a bit guarded about Sersi and Sprite showing up. Since in the movie, he didn’t really want to get the gang back together. So while I had him loosen up a little, I didn’t feel he should be all fun and games.
Also, while writing this chapter, I learned that in India, they speak a whole lot of different languages, so that is cool.
