Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

Chapter 406: Chapter 406 — Kingo

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Compared to Hollywood films, Indian cinema has two defining characteristics.

The first is length.

Hollywood theaters care deeply about the number of daily screenings. Ideally, each film would run around ninety minutes so that more showtimes can fit into a single day.

If a movie runs too long, theaters complain—and studios bring out the scissors. It doesn’t matter if the film is butchered beyond recognition. The runtime must be controlled.

After all, ticket prices don’t increase just because a movie runs an extra thirty minutes.

Indian films, however, typically run between two and a half to three hours—and often include an intermission.

That’s because many films are not shown exclusively in formal cinemas. Sometimes a projectionist loads a projector, screen, and an old tent onto a truck and drives into remote villages.

One film is enough to fill the evening—from after dinner until bedtime. If the film were too short, it wouldn’t reach the intermission point, yet it wouldn’t be long enough to justify screening two movies. The audience would be left with nothing to do.

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The second distinctive feature of Indian cinema is its song-and-dance culture.

Instead of dubbing or subtitling countless regional dialects, music and dance serve as a universal language.

When lovers confess their feelings—they sing and dance.

When heroes and villains clash—they sing and dance.

When praising gods or chanting epics—there must be singing and dancing.

And when the story reaches its triumphant ending?

If no one sings and dances, it would be an affront to heaven and earth.

It’s not just on-screen, either. Audiences sometimes stand up and join in.

That’s why Indian film choreography often features one bold, easily repeatable move, with characters competing as if in a dance battle. It makes it easier for viewers to follow along instead of flailing randomly.

In India, actors don’t necessarily need to sing—but if they can’t dance, they’ll never become major stars.

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Kingo’s films had a unique charm. Even if they didn’t surpass his previous box office records, they consistently earned enough to turn a profit. That was how one star could sustain an entire film company.

Hollywood produces about seven hundred films annually. India averages sixteen hundred.

Yet fewer than ten percent turn a profit. Ninety percent lose money.

Even so, countless dreamers continue to throw themselves into the industry.

In such an environment, for Kingo Film Company to have survived since the end of World War II, its leading star’s contribution could not be overstated.

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After what felt like eighty-one trials—just short of completing a mythical pilgrimage—Henry finally crossed Mumbai from the airport and arrived at Kingo Film Company.

Inside the studio, a song-and-dance sequence was being filmed.

Henry intended to quietly observe.

Instead—

The entire set erupted in screams.

Not the kind reserved for global superstars.

The kind that signaled impending disaster.

...Right.

Henry had momentarily forgotten what he’d brought with him.

A tiger, on a leash but not in a cage.

Panic was inevitable.

Apparently the leash was too thin to notice at first glance.

Henry crouched down immediately, placing one hand on Katie’s neck—ready to restrain her if necessary—and raised his other hand.

”Don’t worry! Katie won’t bite!”

Granted, even English spoken by extraterrestrials isn’t universally understood.

Fortunately, before panic escalated into a stampede, the chosen male lead stepped forward, calling out in Hindi:

”Don’t panic! The tiger is leashed—it won’t hurt anyone!”

After repeating it several times and calming the crowd, he added:

”Our guest has arrived. We’ll pause filming. Thirty-minute break.”

Once the lead actor spoke, assistants and crew moved efficiently. Makeup artists retouched faces. Sets disrupted during the commotion were reset.

The interrupted shot would obviously need to be reshot.

Others finally relaxed, drinking water and catching their breath.

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The man walking toward Henry was not a stereotypical Indian star.

He wore silk harem-style trousers and a fitted embroidered silk vest, leaving much of his sculpted torso exposed.

Unlike the round-faced, slightly plump male stars common in Bollywood, this man’s physique resembled a heroic statue—something passed down from ancient Greece through medieval Europe.

Powerful. Chiseled. Explosive.

Despite the flamboyant costume, he didn’t stride with theatrical swagger. Instead, his movements carried calm, aristocratic grace—like a British nobleman from a period drama.

Karan Patel stepped forward.

”Mr. Brown, allow me to introduce my master—the present-day Kingo, president of Kingo Film Company.”

Then turning:

”Master, this is Mr. Henry Brown, CEO of Stark Pictures.”

As the one whose tiger caused the chaos—and as a guest—Henry made the first move.

”It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Kingo. And I must apologize for the disturbance. I didn’t expect my pet to cause such a commotion.”

”Pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Brown. There’s no need to worry about the pet. No one was hurt, after all.”

They shook hands.

In that moment, both men realized something:

The other was a very good actor.

Not in the sense of harboring sinister intent.

But both carried secrets—and both had the composure and skill to conceal them flawlessly.

Kingo, aware of Henry’s unusual request, deliberately avoided mentioning it. As though such secrets didn’t exist.

That alone earned Henry a measure of respect in Kingo’s eyes. Far better than some overeager youth demanding answers immediately.

Henry felt similarly.

Kingo was nothing like the flamboyant, exaggerated persona seen on screen. In person, he was impeccably polite—like a man raised with refined education and flawless etiquette.

Of course, that might simply be because Henry was an outsider. In films, Kingo acted carefree and playful among familiar allies—especially under the watch of someone he respected as an elder brother.

For now, though—

There was mutual appreciation.

In the martial world, it’s not about saving face. It’s not about proving strength.

It’s about acting.

”A true gentleman knows when to bend and when to stand tall.”

How to bend. When to extend.

That is an art.

Those who lack composure, whose emotions show plainly on their faces, who react impulsively—such people rarely achieve greatness.

At the very least, this first meeting left both with a favorable impression.

And for someone who had lived seven thousand years—

That was not easily earned.

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