"No!!!"
Blackheart let out a series of terrified, agonizing screams as the Ghost Rider's Eye of Judgment bore into him.
But suddenly, the screams stopped.
"Hahahahaha!"
The expression on Blackheart's pale face violently shifted from sheer terror to a sickening, triumphant sneer. He continued to mock the Ghost Rider, his pitch-black eyes entirely unaffected by the Penance Stare.
"Fooled you!" Blackheart laughed, grabbing the Rider's leather collar. "You can't burn what isn't there! I don't have a soul to burn at all!"
He reached out and grabbed Johnny's skeletal neck, completely ignoring the searing heat of the surrounding Hellfire.
"I have no weaknesses!" Blackheart spat.
At that moment, the skeletal jaw of the Ghost Rider he held firmly began to move.
"No," the dual-layered demonic voice rumbled. "You do."
Under Blackheart's mocking gaze, the ambient Hellfire surged and burned exponentially more violently. The Ghost Rider raised his arm and gripped Blackheart's neck in return.
Pure, unadulterated Hellfire swept from his skeletal arm, physically engulfing the Prince of Hell's entire body. The Penance Stare might require a soul to judge, but Zarathos's holy fire could still incinerate demonic flesh.
The intense, blistering physical pain forced Blackheart to wail in genuine agony. Zarathos's flames finally made the arrogant Prince of Hell feel the threat of death.
"No! No! No!" Blackheart screamed in terror within the Rider's grasp. "I cannot die! My goal is not yet achieved! I will become the Lord of Hell!!"
However, this desperate plea did not cause the Ghost Rider's skeletal palm to loosen in the slightest.
Blackheart could feel his physical form melting away. Just then, in a moment of pure desperation, he thought of the last bargaining chip he held in his hand.
"Roxanne!" Blackheart shouted, his skin blistering. "Roxanne!!"
The mention of this single human name indeed provided him a vital sliver of hope.
The Ghost Rider's crushing palm stopped exerting force. The furious flames in the skull's hollow eyes began to violently flicker, shifting between burning orange and a paler yellow.
'I am judging him!' the Spirit of Vengeance roared in the shared mindscape.
'No!' Johnny Blaze's human consciousness fought back with everything he had. 'I can't! I have to save Roxanne! Let him go!'
Within the host's body, two entirely different voices were in constant, agonizing conflict. Human willpower is a virtually infinite force—especially when a loved one desperately needs protection. Under Johnny's fierce, uncompromising psychological struggle, the Spirit of Vengeance was once again forcefully suppressed.
Johnny Blaze regained control of his flaming body. His skeletal palm loosened, and Blackheart took the immediate opportunity to violently wrench himself free.
Clutching his scorched neck, Blackheart dropped to his knees, gasping frantically for air.
"Take me to Roxanne," Johnny growled, his voice a mix of human desperation and demonic distortion.
"I... I know," Blackheart wheezed.
The conversation between the two was surprisingly, unsettlingly harmonious. Having calmed his ragged breathing, Blackheart... very submissively agreed to Johnny's terms.
Leaving the ruined warehouse, Blackheart walked ahead at a leisurely pace along the desolate dirt road. It was now five in the morning, less than an hour before dawn.
He looked back at the flaming Ghost Rider walking slowly behind him. Then, he looked up at the fading night sky.
Blackheart smiled slightly, a cruel plan forming in his mind.
"Johnny," Blackheart called out over his shoulder. "Why do you obey my father's orders? You should know, the Ghost Rider is never truly controlled by anyone. You could rule by my side."
After the temporary agreement was reached, the atmosphere was no longer openly confrontational. Now, Blackheart actively took the initiative to chat with his executioner.
Johnny, who had to constantly focus every ounce of his mental energy on keeping the Spirit of Vengeance from striking back from within... absolutely didn't want to bother answering Blackheart's manipulative questions.
"I don't take orders from demons," Johnny hissed, the flames flickering on his skull. "And certainly not from Mephisto. I only came for you... because of Roxanne."
"Oh, I see," Blackheart chuckled darkly. "Human love, is it? How predictably fragile."
The two continued to walk along the barren path. Johnny kept all his focus on resisting the Spirit of Vengeance within him, while simultaneously staying on high alert for Blackheart suddenly launching an attack.
Because of this intense split-focus, Johnny didn't notice that the eastern sky was already beginning to rapidly brighten.
As the very first ray of golden sunlight pierced the horizon and struck the desert floor... Johnny Blaze's skeletal body suddenly emitted thick clouds of hissing steam.
The roaring flames on his skull slowly began to die out, turning into wisps of white smoke. The Spirit of Vengeance within him forcefully fell into a deep, magical slumber.
Johnny gasped, his flesh rapidly regenerating over his skull as his body was entirely restored to normal. He collapsed to his knees, utterly exhausted, looking up at the smiling, pristine Blackheart before him.
Various emotions flickered in Johnny's tired eyes. Resentment. Anger. Self-reproach.
He had actually trusted a demon's promise once again.
"You are so profoundly naive, Johnny," Blackheart mocked, straightening his suit. "Also, I've noticed... you aren't familiar with your own cursed power at all, are you?"
Blackheart stepped closer, looking down at the shivering human.
"Don't you know? The Spirit of Vengeance's power is tied to the shadows. It is suppressed during the day!"
Under Johnny Blaze's horrified gaze, Blackheart laughed wildly and vanished instantly into the morning mist.
As for killing Johnny while he was vulnerable... Blackheart wasn't a fool. The power of the Spirit of Vengeance was only dormant, not dead. The daylight suppressed its power, it didn't make it permanently disappear. Once it felt a lethal, mortal threat to its host, the Spirit could still forcefully wake up during the day to protect its vessel.
Until he figured out exactly which ancient entity was residing inside Johnny Blaze... Blackheart wouldn't do something so stupid as a direct assassination. Besides, he still held Roxanne, the perfect leverage to threaten the Rider. With such a powerful thug available, why not squeeze out every bit of his remaining value?
Johnny Blaze's eyes felt like they would burst as the hope of saving Roxanne vanished into thin air. This filled him with immense, crushing regret. Every second Roxanne spent in Blackheart's hands increased the mortal danger.
However, having completely lost his supernatural power in the daylight... Johnny didn't even have the physical strength to stand up. He could only watch helplessly as Blackheart vanished before his eyes.
The mocking laughter echoing in the air gradually dissipated. Johnny Blaze only felt his eyelids becoming impossibly heavy.
In his final moments before passing out from sheer exhaustion, his vision blurred. He saw something step into his line of sight on the dirt road.
It was a pair of dusty, worn leather cowboy boots.
Time passed slowly, and the sun soon reached its zenith.
In a remote, forgotten cemetery on the outskirts of Los Angeles, there were very few visitors. Only an old, rugged cowboy worked as the groundskeeper, constantly cleaning the weathered tombstones.
And today, at the entrance of the abandoned church where he lived... two uninvited guests arrived.
Knock! Knock!
Carter Slade slowly opened the heavy wooden door. A man and a woman, both wearing sleek black tactical suits, met his guarded gaze.
"Sir," Natasha Romanoff spoke with a polite but firm smile. "Could you take us to see the man you rescued from the desert this morning? We are his friends."
Negotiation and reading people had always been Natasha's forte.
Carter Slade scanned the two of them with sharp, ancient eyes, sizing them up for a long moment before nodding slightly. He stepped aside to let them in.
Behind the main chapel of the church, in a slightly dilapidated but clean back room... Johnny Blaze was lying quietly on a cot, deep asleep. From his outward appearance, he seemed completely unharmed.
Seeing Johnny's stable state, Natasha and Hawkeye both breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Their tactical hopes for stopping the demonic invasion still rested heavily on Johnny. Nothing could happen to him.
After Johnny had set off on his Hellcycle the night before, they had followed closely behind in the SUV. However, there weren't many traffic cameras or thermal sensors in the deep suburbs. Consequently, they had lost their target's tracks. By the time S.H.I.E.L.D. satellites found Johnny's trail again, they discovered he had already been brought back to this cemetery by the old man who had saved him.
Natasha pulled up a wooden chair and sat quietly in the room, waiting for Johnny to wake up.
Hawkeye, however, began to closely scan the surroundings.
The layout of the old church was very fascinating. Despite its dilapidated, weathered exterior, the inside was immaculately tidy. Especially the large, classical mural of the Nativity painted in the center of the chapel... it was maintained spotlessly.
"Sir," Clint asked, turning his head to look at the old cowboy standing by the doorframe. "Are you a believer?"
No matter how Clint looked at it, the man's rugged, worn appearance didn't suggest a devout, pious believer. Yet, he maintained everything representing God in this building with absolute reverence.
"A believer?" Carter Slade chuckled dryly, pulling out a battered wooden pipe. "No! No, no."
Carter lit his old pipe with a match. After exhaling a puff of sweet-smelling smoke, he answered Clint's question with a knowing, tired smile.
"I won't be going to Heaven, son. And I don't technically believe in God."
"Oh?" Clint raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over the religious artifacts that were frequently polished. He looked back at Carter Slade. "Then what about all of these?"
Carter Slade's calloused hand gently brushed over a nearby wooden cross resting on a table. A profound look of centuries-old reminiscence flashed in his eyes.
"Because of them..." Carter whispered. "...I can live here in peace."
"Hmm?" Clint's gaze narrowed, his body stiffening for a moment as his tactical mind put the pieces together.
Carter Slade had no intention of speaking in riddles with these government agents.
"You know what's out there, young man," Carter said, his voice dropping low. "Demons can't step foot on hallowed ground. They can't enter a church. It's because these symbols are here that the darkness stays outside."
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Give me powerstones.
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