Johnny Blaze was having a miserable time lately. Every rumble of thunder outside seemed to reverberate inside his skull, the sound waves traveling from afar to batter his fragile mind. The vibrations pounded on his eardrums as if someone were hammering them from the inside out, leaving his forehead drenched in a cold sweat.
It was his heartbeat.
He realized it was the sound of his own heartbeat. And having a heartbeat was, at the very least, a good sign—it meant he still had a heart, rather than just the hollow, flaming cavity between his ribs that he had come to dread. Still, the thing inside him was growing more restless with each passing day. Moreau had promised to help him suppress it, and Johnny had clung to that hope, even enduring the young magician's biting sarcasm. All he wanted was to see his girlfriend again.
At first, Johnny thought he'd rid himself of the demon within. But he soon learned that Moreau had only buried it deeper. Now, that cursed entity was howling from its pit, keeping Johnny awake at night.
Fortunately, the demon wasn't yet strong enough to break free and take over his body again. But even so, Johnny had fled from Carter Slade. The old Ghost Rider couldn't help him either. According to that young sorcerer, what was inside Johnny was not the same as what had once possessed Slade. Johnny's burden was far more dangerous, requiring far greater effort to control.
"Control? To hell with control!" Johnny growled, feeling as though his blood was about to boil over and explode from his veins. He knew that soon enough, he'd once again feel the searing agony of flames consuming his body from the inside out. His organs, muscles, skin—everything would burn away, leaving nothing but a blazing skeleton fueled by a demon's soul.
Johnny would never forget that pain. Even on the first night he managed to suppress the demon, he still needed alcohol to fall asleep. Without it, the nightmare of that torment would crash into his dreams by midnight. That's why he had been arrested for drunk driving in the U.S.—and now, with the demon's voice incessantly reminding him of his suffering, Johnny needed more alcohol. Something strong enough to knock him out completely. Only then could he silence the endless roars echoing through his soul.
Sitting up in bed, Johnny fumbled under it for a bottle. "What's this?" he muttered. Scotch whiskey. The kind strong enough to fuel a race car.
"You're going to finish all my liquor," Moreau grumbled. Despite his complaints, the priest made an excellent roommate, constantly replenishing their alcohol supply. After leaving Slade, Johnny had joined forces with Moreau, who claimed the church had sent replacements for the fallen Inquisition members. Moreau, as the only survivor, had been promoted and was now receiving a much larger monthly stipend.
Even with Johnny freeloading and their daily drinking habits, Moreau could easily cover the expenses. Johnny, who had little money of his own, had even refused financial help from his girlfriend. His pride wouldn't allow it, and besides, Moreau's various "side jobs" ensured a steady cash flow.
"This is part of my payment for working with your church," Johnny said impatiently, trying to snatch the Scotch back from Moreau. "I've got to say, I didn't know this kind of gig existed. Just pray daily and take communion on weekends to earn a paycheck. Best job in the world, right?"
"Your prayers lack sincerity, Johnny." Moreau sat down beside Johnny, speaking with a seriousness that belied his usual demeanor. He didn't return the bottle; he needed Johnny to stay sober for what he was about to say. "I know you're disappointed, but prayer really can alleviate your symptoms."
"But it can't fix the problem, can it?" Johnny's voice trembled. He felt as if flames were crawling out from between his bones, his skin smoking from the heat. Panicking, he looked down, only to realize it was a hallucination—a terrifying one, reminding him of his worst fears. Swallowing hard, he tried to reassure himself that he wasn't actually on fire.
"I remember what Solomon said," Johnny muttered, his earlier frustration giving way to despair. "He told me this is my fate—that I'll never escape the Spirit of Vengeance."
"I've already sent word to him," Moreau replied. "And I left some... leverage. You wouldn't believe how shocked the church was to learn that brat is the Holy Son. And then I just happened to have that dream." Moreau smirked. "The Pope believes the dream foretells the Holy Son's great deeds. They think he's destined to slay a three-headed dragon, just like Saint George. They're already talking about canonizing him—not the cheap kind of canonization from the Roman Church, mind you. And in the meantime, I've secured an opportunity for you."
Moreau leaned in conspiratorially. "You absolutely can't tell anyone about this. The Spirit of Vengeance belongs to Hell. If you still can't control it and you're willing to do whatever it takes to find peace... I think you could try going to Hell to resolve this. Just don't tell the church—they're only interested in using your Spirit of Vengeance to hunt dark magic creatures. Why else do you think they hired you?"
"I'm not surprised by the church's motives—I'm not an idiot. But your plan involves me facing that demon?" Johnny's eyes widened.
"Exactly," Moreau said smugly. "There are things that magician hasn't told you—though his nature won't let him tolerate our mistakes. So, he shared some information with me. He didn't tell you what the Spirit of Vengeance really is, how powerful it truly is, or what Mephisto has done to it. If you're willing to listen, I can explain it all..."
"Then let's open that bottle first," Johnny replied, resigned.
Balthazar's teacup was empty. Quietly, he refilled it with whiskey from his stainless steel flask, pretending to sip tea. If he didn't have a little alcohol in his system, he doubted he could endure the deafening metallic clanging in the room.
Each time the Sorcerer Supreme struck the Ark of the Covenant with Thor's hammer, a blinding shower of sparks erupted. The cacophony of artifact colliding with artifact was nearly enough to knock Balthazar off his seat. Still, there was a humorous side to the situation. The thought of Thor's confused expression when he reached out to summon his hammer, only to find it missing, made Balthazar chuckle inwardly. The god of thunder really needed to stop misplacing his tools.
Unfortunately, Balthazar couldn't witness Thor's reaction in person. For now, he had to endure the racket.
"My king," Balthazar said during a brief pause in the noise. He raised his voice slightly, knowing he had to seize this moment. "Perhaps you should place more trust in your disciple. He might return unharmed. His stigmata isn't just for show."
"I'm trying to prevent him from overusing the stigmata—that's why I'm trying to open the Ark," the Sorcerer Supreme retorted, glancing at Balthazar's teacup. "I know you're drinking whiskey. Stop pretending. And tell me, isn't it natural to make plans for one's disciples? Don't you do the same for yours?"
"I had Dave switch to environmental science. Druids need to keep up with the times. Stonehenge rituals are outdated, and there aren't any other druids left to collaborate with," Balthazar admitted, abandoning his pretense and taking a bold swig from his flask. He poked a finger into his ear. "But I never worry about Dave. He can handle his own problems."
"And do you think Dave could serve as Solomon's advisor?" the Sorcerer Supreme asked. "When Solomon inherits the title, will Dave be as wise as Merlin?"
"Uh... no," Balthazar admitted reluctantly.
"Then you need to speed up his education. Solomon has been carrying a heavier burden since childhood. He doesn't need an incompetent advisor."
"Don't you think you're being too hard on Solomon?" Balthazar asked, unable to hold back. "Those responsibilities weren't his to bear."
The Sorcerer Supreme let out a cold laugh. "His 'natural' responsibility is to hang on a cross. The future I've arranged for him is far better. Difficult, yes, but at least he'll live—and keep his mind intact. Stop wasting time, Balthazar. Help me figure out how to open this thing. My patience is wearing thin."
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