Chapter 337. The Eternal Rhythm of Bollywood
In the sweltering, vibrant labyrinth of India's backstreets, Gilgamesh—the undisputed powerhouse of the Eternals—had reinvented himself as a whirlwind of blunt force. He moved with a practiced, almost casual violence, his large hands delivering "slaps of justice" that echoed like pistol shots against the jaws of local thugs. One by one, the hoodlums were laid out in neat, unconscious rows. Those wretched souls who had the misfortune of being pinned under the weight of their fallen comrades didn't escape his charity; Gilgamesh simply leaned over, his expression one of bored focus, and added a finishing clip to their ears until they, too, drifted into the abyss of sleep.
Once the dust settled, Gilgamesh and Thena turned their backs on the carnage as if they had done nothing more strenuous than folding laundry. They continued their trek toward their hotel, leaving seven broken men behind on the desolate street to enjoy the peaceful, dreamless slumber of infants.
By the time the sun climbed over the horizon the following morning, the seven thugs were discovered in a state of absolute indignity. They had been stripped of everything—clothes, wallets, even their pride—left stark naked to face the judging eyes of the morning commuters. It was only after a disgusted passerby called the authorities that the law finally arrived.
The medical examination, however, revealed a grim reality that far outweighed their public shamed. The "slaps" had been delivered with the precision of a falling mountain. All seven suffered from catastrophic cranial trauma; three slipped into deep, unresponsive comas, while the remaining four were reduced to hollow shells, their minds shattered into a permanent state of infancy, capable only of stammering incoherent "aba-ba" sounds at the walls.
The local police, ever pragmatic and weary of paperwork, didn't lose much sleep over the tragedy. Adhering to the ancient wisdom that some stones are better left unturned, they declined to investigate who had possessed the god-like strength to break men so thoroughly. Upon discovering the victims' lengthy criminal records, the officers simply checked a few boxes, threw the vegetative remains into a prison ward, and patted themselves on the back for "solving" a string of cold cases.
Naturally, the architects of this quiet massacre were long gone. Gilgamesh and Thena, joined by the serene Ajak, had already checked out of their hotel and were navigating the chaotic sprawl of Mumbai toward a Bollywood film studio. According to Ajak's digital scouting the night before, this was the glittering lair of their long-lost brother, Kingo.
The journey was a sensory assault. The three Eternals moved through a world that seemed to defy the laws of physics and safety. At one point, they stood on a crowded platform, watching in silent fascination as a train pulled in, its metal skin barely visible beneath a human carpet of passengers. Hundreds clung to the doors, the roof, and the couplings, riding the exterior of the speeding carriages with a nonchalance that bordered on the divine. Even Gilgamesh, who had seen empires rise and fall, felt a twitch of genuine shock at the sight.
After wandering through the sprawling, Technicolor maze of the studio lots, Ajak finally led them to the high-ceilinged pavilion where Kingo was reportedly "at work."
Security was tight, the gates guarded by men who took their roles far too seriously, but Ajak's silver tongue smoothed the way. She leaned in, offering a warm, grandmotherly smile as she informed the guard that three of Kingo's oldest "university friends" had arrived for a surprise reunion. The gates swung open.
As they ascended the stairs, a wall of infectious, upbeat music hit them. Peering through the heavy soundproof doors of the soundstage, they were greeted by a kaleidoscope of motion. Under the blinding glare of a hundred spotlights, a massive troupe of dancers moved in perfect, rhythmic synchronicity. And there, in the dead center of the storm, soaking up every lux of light and every ounce of adoration, was Kingo.
Grip crews scurried in the shadows, and camera operators on massive cranes swung through the air like predatory birds to capture the spectacle. Seeing their comrade so thoroughly entrenched in his art, the three visitors retreated to the periphery, content to watch the show.
Gilgamesh narrowed his eyes at Kingo's attire—a flamboyant ensemble dominated by shimmering gold and deep emerald green. It tugged at a thread of buried memory, feeling strangely familiar, yet he couldn't quite place why his friend was dressed like a high-fantasy monarch.
Their observation was interrupted by the approach of a portly Indian man dressed in a sharp, expensive suit. He moved with the hurried grace of someone who spent his life putting out fires for famous people.
"Namaste," the man said, pressing his palms together in a traditional greeting, his belly straining slightly against his waistcoat. "I am Karun Patel, Kingo's personal valet and assistant."
Ajak returned the greeting with her usual poise. Gilgamesh, towering over the man, tilted his head curiously. "A personal assistant? Like Batman has his Alfred?"
Karun let out a soft, nervous chuckle, his eyes twinkling with a mix of awe and humility. "You flatter me, sir. I merely tend to the mundane details of his life. It is... truly the greatest honor of my humble existence to stand before the Great Eternals."
The three companions exchanged a sharp, wary glance. The fact that a mortal man spoke their true titles so casually was a ripple in the pond they hadn't expected.
Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the music from the center of the stage. "Stop! That's a wrap on the sequence!"
The music died. The dancers exhaled as one, their vibrant saris and tunics settling. Makeup artists rushed forward with powders and brushes, but Kingo waved them away with a sharp, theatrical gesture. His eyes had already locked onto the figures standing in the dimness of the wings.
"Forgive me, everyone! My dear friends from university have arrived. Take twenty!" Kingo shouted to the crew, his face splitting into a dazzling, movie-star grin as he strode toward them.
"Welcome, welcome! Ajak, my lady, it has been an age! And Gilgamesh, you old ox! And Thena..." Kingo's voice faltered for a fraction of a second as he reached them. The warmth in his eyes was replaced by a flash of guarded concern as he looked at Thena, remembering the brittle state of her mind. He snapped his fingers toward his valet. "Karun, quickly! Ensure the set is cleared of any loud noises or sudden movements. We must be—"
"Kingo, peace," Gilgamesh interrupted, placing a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder. "There is no need for whispers. Thena's Mahd Wy'ry... it is gone. She is whole."
"What?" Kingo's jaw dropped, the theatrical mask slipping to reveal genuine shock. Then, a slow, radiant smile spread across his face. "Incredible! When? How? My dear Thena, this is the greatest news of the century! We must celebrate! You come to my house, on my set—I shall host a feast that will be talked about for decades!" He bowed low, his gold-and-green silks rustling.
"It happened only yesterday," Gilgamesh explained, his voice softening with pride. "All thanks to a friend of Ajak's. A man who possessed the means to mend what we thought was broken forever."
Kingo's brow furrowed in skepticism. "A man? A mortal man has such power? Truly?"
Before the conversation could spiral into a technical debate, Ajak stepped forward, her eyes grave as she glanced pointedly at Karun. "Kingo, we can discuss the 'how' later. There are... weightier matters at hand. Private matters."
Kingo didn't miss the shift in her tone. He straightened his posture, glancing at his valet. "Ah, don't worry about Karun. He has been at my side for over forty years. He knows our secrets, and I trust him with my life." Karun offered a small, loyal bow in confirmation.
"Very well," Ajak conceded. "Then find us a place of silence, Kingo. We have much to discuss."
Karun led the group through the bowels of the studio to a secluded, high-tech conference room tucked away from the prying ears of the crew. As they walked, Kingo threw an arm around Gilgamesh's broad shoulders, gesturing wildly at his own costume.
"So, Gil, what do you think of the threads? Be honest."
Gilgamesh squinted at the gold plating. "It's... loud. And strangely familiar."
"Ha! I should hope so!" Kingo let out a bark of laughter. "These are your scales! Your armor! I'm currently starring in 'The Legend of Gilgamesh.' It's a sweeping epic, all about you! Though I took some creative liberties with the height, obviously." He slapped Gilgamesh's back, leaving the warrior looking utterly bewildered.
"I shall take Gilgamesh to see it the moment it premieres," Thena added, a rare, playful glint in her eyes.
"The film is nearly in the can," Kingo said with infectious enthusiasm. "And the 'Eternal Cinematic Universe' won't stop there. I've already got scripts in development for the others. I'm thinking a brooding, moody piece for Ikaris next..."
He didn't notice the way the air suddenly grew cold at the mention of the name. He didn't see the way Ajak's lips thinned into a hard line or how Gilgamesh's hand tightened into a fist. They reached the conference room and the heavy doors slid shut, sealing out the music of Bollywood and replacing it with the heavy silence of the coming storm.
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