It is easy to picture the scene: a group of devout monks, mentally and spiritually prepared for a holy war, rushing out of their sanctuary.
They were likely weighed down by at least ten pounds of consecrated amulets, clutching vials of blessed holy water in their trembling hands, and brandishing massive silver crosses strapped to their backs.
They probably charged out with righteous arrogance, shouting something dramatic like, "Behold the Holy Light! Evil shall be purged!"
Instead of vampires, werewolves, or dark wizards, what they found waiting for them was a squad of very ordinary, very pragmatic human beings holding a neat row of AK-47 assault rifles.
In that precise moment, their hearts—and their worldview—must have absolutely collapsed.
Who ever wrote the rule that the Devil's servants must be supernatural creatures?
In this era, as long as the price is right, there are as many mercenaries available as there are grains of sand, ready to do the Devil's dirty work without asking questions.
"I am truly sorry. You have to understand that sometimes reality is disappointing, and plans rarely survive contact with the enemy," Coulson said, his voice gentle as he tried to comfort the old monk, who looked ready to weep tears of frustration.
"Do you have any idea where the boy might have fled to next?" Ethan Hunt pressed, keeping the focus on the mission.
"We do not know." The old monk shook his head with grave seriousness. "However, there is a priest who has a close relationship with our order. He left with the boy, the Son of the Demon, to protect him."
"Then you should contact this priest immediately. Make a phone call, track his GPS, anything," Ethan said, looking at the old monk with a raised eyebrow. "Don't tell me you are like the old guard at Kamar-Taj, refusing to use technological equipment because of 'tradition'."
"Correction," Coulson interjected, unable to help himself. "You are talking about the old Kamar-Taj."
Ethan looked at him. "Come again?"
"I personally consulted on the reconstruction of Kamar-Taj," Coulson explained with a hint of pride. "After taking up the mantle, Doctor Strange formulated two consecutive Five-Year Plans. The first five years were dedicated to completing modern infrastructure. They ran fiber optics up the Himalayas. There is now gigabit Wi-Fi connected to the summit of Everest. The second Five-Year Plan is to fully transform Kamar-Taj into a modern city that integrates technology and mysticism. When I left, most sorcerers were equipped with smartphones, and I even saw a few apprentices shopping online for robes."
"That's... actually not surprising," Ethan pouted, looking speechless. "Strange was a neurosurgeon. I guess he couldn't live without high-speed internet."
"We do not have much intersection with Stephen Strange's order, but we are not savages," the old monk spoke up, defending his dignity. "Actually, we tried to call. The priest's cell phone has been disconnected since this morning, so it should be..."
"So the priest had an accident, and he is likely dead," Ethan finished the sentence, his brow furrowing as he calculated the odds.
"Well, although that dark possibility exists, I think it is more likely that his phone simply ran out of battery," the old monk sighed, pulling an ancient, brick-like Nokia from his robes. "Young people nowadays always want to switch to those fancy smartphones—Fruit brands, Apple, Pear, whatever. They can't even last a day on standby, and the screens crack if you look at them wrong. I really don't see the appeal. I told them to buy a long-lasting, durable model. I have used this one for ten years, and it still has 40% battery."
"Well, that logic actually seems sound," Ethan admitted with a smile, agreeing with the elder's pragmatic view on hardware.
"Fortunately, even without battery power, there are ways. Come with me." The old monk waved his hand, motioning for the team to follow. They traversed several winding stone corridors until they reached a heavy oak door at the end of the hall.
When the door opened, the contrast was blinding. Inside the stone room, banks of advanced data servers hummed with blue LED lights. Dozens of monitoring stations lined the walls, and several young monks were typing furiously, connecting to satellite feeds and radar tracking systems.
"Okay, it looks like you guys are much more up-to-date than I imagined," Ethan said, looking around the command center in genuine surprise.
"I told you, we are not that closed off," the old monk explained with a proud smile. "Nowadays, when the church recruits newcomers, we require a college degree. We actually offer special preferential treatment and scholarships for those majoring in Computer Science and Network Security."
"Then why did you suffer such a crushing defeat when facing Roarke?" Coulson asked, puzzled. "If you have this level of tech, didn't you purchase modern weapons and tactical gear?"
"Of course we did. We have an armory," the old monk heaved a long, heavy sigh, his face filled with bitter unwillingness. "It is just that... we didn't expect the Devil to also learn to keep pace with the times. We prepared for magic; he brought heavy infantry."
Everyone fell silent. The irony was palpable.
Using the triangulated positioning of the priest's last known mobile signal, the team quickly located his coordinates. However, when Ethan and the others arrived at the scene, the situation was precarious. The priest, who was supposed to be protecting the Devil's son, was currently dangling precariously from a tree branch jutting out of a steep cliff edge.
"Well, it looks like he must have lost his footing during the escape," Ethan observed. He flicked his wrist, manipulating the air vectors beneath the man. A controlled updraft, solid as a cushion, caught the priest and lifted him gently back to solid ground.
"We are from S.H.I.E.L.D., and we need your help," Coulson said, flashing his credentials before the priest could even catch his breath.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.? The power from the mundane government..." The priest, a man named Moreau, looked at them with suspicion, clearly worried they might be demons in disguise. But when his eyes landed on Johnny Blaze, who had been silent the entire trip, Moreau's eyes lit up, and his entire demeanor shifted from fear to excitement.
"That arm, that leg... and that face that screams 'I am the unluckiest man in the world'. It is definitely true."
"Who are you? Do I know you?" Johnny snapped. Being touched and examined by a stranger was annoying enough, but the comment about his face crossed a line. "Believe it or not, keep talking and I will show you a much worse face."
"My name is Moreau. I come from a monastic order—not the one you just visited, though I cooperate with them to protect the boy. My order is more secretive, more... militant," Moreau explained rapidly. "I don't have much contact with the outside, but I am very sensitive to information from the supernatural world. You don't know me, but I know you very well—Johnny Blaze, the host of the Ghost Rider."
"Why are you checking up on me?" Johnny's expression turned dark and defensive.
"Don't be nervous. We just want to ask for your help," Moreau said earnestly. "I think you already know about the boy. Only by using the power of the Ghost Rider can we find Roarke's son before the Devil does."
"Can you find that child?" Hearing this, Ethan and the team turned to look at Johnny, their expressions turning hostile. "You have a way to find the kid, and you've been hiding it this whole time? What is the meaning of this?"
"Don't listen to him, I didn't sense anything at all..." Johnny stammered.
"You don't need to explain, I know why," Moreau interrupted Johnny, speaking calmly. "I heard that the new Sorcerer Supreme helped you. He placed a metaphysical shield on you to block your connection with Mephisto. That is why you cannot sense Roarke or the child's aura."
"So you want me to restore contact with Mephisto? You want me to become his lackey again? Are you kidding me?" Johnny grabbed Moreau by the collar and growled.
The realization hit him. That was why Mephisto had given him that meaningful look before vanishing. The old devil had dug a hole and was just waiting for Johnny to jump into it. The contract Mephisto signed with Ethan and S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed fair on the surface, but for Johnny, it was a trap.
Johnny was filled with rage. Could these devils not be so cheap? Mephisto makes a fair deal with the people he can't bully—Ethan and the Academy—but treats Johnny like a pawn to be cheated. Why did they always look down on him? Did they think he was just a disposable tool?
The clay figurine still has an earthen temper when it's wet. Johnny felt he was easy to bully. He couldn't afford to offend Mephisto, he couldn't afford to offend S.H.I.E.L.D., but was he supposed to be afraid of a random priest?
However, just as Johnny raised his fist to beat up Moreau, the priest spoke again.
"We can help you break the contract with Mephisto. Permanently."
"I thought you were begging for mercy... wait, what are you talking about?" Johnny's body froze. He immediately released Moreau's collar, smoothed out the priest's rumpled clothes with awkward gentleness, and put on a sudden, eager smile. "Dear Father, could you repeat that part again?"
Although the unequal contract between Johnny and Mephisto had been temporarily blocked by Doctor Strange, it was a temporary fix, not a cure. At best, Mephisto couldn't directly telepath Ghost Rider or control his movements. But fundamentally, as long as Johnny's soul belonged to Mephisto, the curse would remain forever. This was why Mephisto remained so calm despite the Rider's rebellion; Johnny was just a toy on a long leash.
Johnny's life was a tragedy. Years ago, as a naive boy, he sold his soul to a cunning evil nobleman to save his father from cancer. He was tricked. His father died anyway, and his body was forcibly occupied by the Spirit of Vengeance—a bald, flaming demon. Every night, he was tormented by this brutal entity, living a dark life without freedom, where even death was a wishful dream.
And now, a priest falls from the sky and offers him the deed to his own soul? How could Johnny not be trembling with excitement?
"The monastery I belong to is ancient. We possess knowledge far beyond your imagination," Moreau said with a solemn expression. "We are absolutely sure we can lift the curse and save your soul. Johnny Blaze, you are not the first Ghost Rider. We have saved your predecessors before."
"Interesting!" Luna's interest was immediately piqued.
Mephisto was a Lord of Hell. Even the most powerful magic organizations on Earth struggled to deal with his contracts. Yet this little-known monastic order claimed to have the power to snatch a soul back from the Devil himself? And they claimed to have done it successfully before?
As far as Luna knew, entities capable of such feats usually didn't operate on Earth. This monastery was definitely not simple; there were secrets here worth uncovering.
"Then, Mr. Johnny," Moreau coughed dryly, switching to his 'salesman' voice. "Are you willing to believe in the Holy Light? Praise the Holy Light, and dedicate the rest of your life to the great... Cough, sorry, occupational habit. Let me rephrase. Are you willing to make this deal: save the boy, and in return, we save you?"
"I am willing... to kill all you Holy Light pyramid scheme scammers!"
Johnny growled suddenly. His eyes flashed orange, and he punched Moreau, sending the priest flying backward.
Do not misunderstand—Johnny was 100% willing. But the Spirit of Vengeance inside him was absolutely not.
Although the Rider was a lunatic obsessed with punishing the guilty, he wasn't stupid. He had finally escaped Mephisto's direct control. Sure, his host was getting old, but freedom was freedom. If the contract was forcibly terminated, the Spirit of Vengeance would be evicted and likely returned to Mephisto's grasp. How could the Spirit agree to that?
"Spirit of Vengeance! This is Johnny's choice, not yours!" Moreau scrambled up from the dirt, wiping blood from his lip. Instead of being depressed by the beating, he looked even more excited.
Not every preacher believes in the Holy Light, but those who do are often zealots. Moreau saw a soul hovering between darkness and light, and his missionary instincts kicked into overdrive. He looked at Johnny and practically shouted with his eyes: Holy Light, this balding man is worth saving (conning)!
Moreau began to chant, condensing a faint glow of Holy Light in his hands, attempting to help Johnny suppress the Spirit. But it was impossible. The Spirit of Vengeance was a fallen angel; its resistance to holy magic was incredibly high.
After a few seconds of struggle, Johnny fell to his knees, clutching his head.
"I can't hold him back anymore! He's coming out!" Johnny shouted in horror, smoke pouring from his jacket.
"In that case, go help him," Ethan said, looking at Coulson.
"Well, it seems I have become the designated expert for this kind of problem," Coulson sighed. He clenched his right fist and strode towards Johnny, who was on the brink of a full transformation.
"Hey! Don't you dare send me back to Hell—"
BANG!
Johnny, whose head had just ignited into a flaming skull, took a solid right hook to the jaw from Phil Coulson.
The Ghost Rider has almost no physical weaknesses. He is nearly immortal. Even if blown to smithereens, he reconstructs. He has Hellfire, the Penance Stare, and god-tier durability. In short, he is equipped with overpowered skills and special effects.
But none of that changed the sad fact that he could not withstand Coulson's right hand.
The moment Coulson's knuckles—imbued with the Imagine Breaker ability—connected with the flaming bone, the supernatural transformation was negated. The fire snuffed out instantly. The skull reverted to flesh. Johnny's eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
"So, what do we do now?" Coulson asked, dragging the fainting Johnny by the collar as he looked back at the group.
"I have already prepared the materials for the ritual," Moreau explained, dusting himself off. "We just need to find a safe place. I will release the shielding magic set by Doctor Strange. Once the shield is down, the Rider will instinctively sense Roarke's location."
Night fell, heavy and oppressive. The moon was hidden behind thick banks of dark clouds. Lightning flashed intermittently, illuminating the landscape in harsh white strobes, and the wind howled through the trees, yet strangely, not a drop of rain fell.
On the roof of a ruined house overlooking an abandoned warehouse, the team stood side by side, watching the scene below.
"The energy output of this ritual is massive," Ethan observed, staring at the complex magic circle Moreau had drawn around the warehouse. "The weather phenomena are being generated by the magical backlash."
"Don't worry," Moreau said, his voice full of confidence. "I have already instructed Johnny not to suppress the Spirit. Driven by the hunger of the hunt, the Spirit of Vengeance, who possesses little reason, will compromise. He wants the target more than he wants to hide."
"Look," Coulson pointed down. "He is coming out."
The doors of the abandoned warehouse were smashed open. Johnny staggered out, but he was different. The Hellfire burning on his body was fierce, reaching high into the night air.
But unlike before, this wasn't the clean, orange fire of the Rider. Having resumed the connection with Mephisto, and having been betrayed by humanity yet again, the Ghost Rider's skull was no longer a bleached white bone. It had turned pitch black, like charred obsidian. Even the flames were laced with streaks of smoky darkness.
The Black-Skulled Rider mounted his motorcycle, which instantly demonized into a machine of twisted metal and fire. With a roar that shook the ground, he turned into a streak of flame and vanished into the night at extreme speed.
"Do you know why his skull turned black?" Ethan asked, watching the trail of fire fade. He turned to Luna.
"He is depraved. He feels betrayed," Luna said, her eyes flickering as she looked at Moreau. "It seems that every time you 'save' the host, you are betraying the Spirit of Vengeance, pushing it deeper into hatred. If his flame turns completely black... a brand new, uncontrollable demon will be born. It will be a threat to everyone."
"Perhaps," Moreau sighed, his expression complicated. "According to the ancient records of the original Ghost Rider, his light was once blue—the color of pure vengeance. It was human corruption that turned the angel into a monster. We have no ability to truly save it. The Holy Light that humans possess is too weak to scrub away that much hate."
"Okay, enough philosophical debate about his color palette," Coulson urged, checking his watch. "Let's get on the jet. If we don't leave now, we won't be able to catch up with him."
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Word count: 2874
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