Lucas stepped forward and pinned the Ghost Rider to the ground with one foot.
Purple lightning burst from his body, instantly spreading across the Rider's entire frame.
"Wanda."
Wanda moved without hesitation, Chaos Magic gathering at her fingertips.
She tapped the Ghost Rider lightly on the forehead.
In an instant, Chaos Magic poured down like a flood of liquid light.
Wherever it flowed, Hellfire recoiled and vanished.
Within mere breaths, the flames were extinguished entirely.
Johnny's consciousness surged back into control, flesh regrowing rapidly—even the severed leg regenerated in seconds.
"I… what happened to me…?"
Johnny woke to find himself sprawled on the ground and immediately realized he had transformed again.
"Let's go inside first."
Crowds had already formed all around them, phones raised in every direction.
Videos of the Ghost Rider were already exploding across the internet.
Back in the office, the shaken Johnny gulped down water in huge swallows.
"You've never thought about trying to control the Spirit of Vengeance inside you?"
Lucas asked.
Johnny treated the Spirit the same way Bruce Banner once treated the Hulk—
as a monster to be expelled.
But that path only drove the Spirit madder.
"Control? How? Every time he appears, I black out instantly."
Johnny was frustrated.
He spent every day praying sunset would come a little slower,
just so he wouldn't have to surrender his body.
"You and it are already one.
You are him, and he is you.
You have to accept him—turn that power into your own.
Rejecting it only makes it more violent and uncontrollable."
"I can't.
I don't even know where it is inside me.
I can't feel it at all."
Johnny had no idea how to locate it, let alone control it.
"Try calming your mind.
It's in the deepest part of your soul.
If you quiet yourself enough, it'll come to you."
Lucas wasn't sure how one was supposed to "communicate" with the Spirit of Vengeance, but meditation was the simplest method.
"You can try it at home.
But let me make this clear—if something goes wrong, don't blame me.
I'm just offering advice, not guaranteeing results."
Last thing he wanted was Johnny demanding compensation after the Spirit burned his apartment down.
Johnny nodded.
"I'll try. I'll head back now."
He had just reached the door when he paused and turned around.
"Uh… will that Spirit show up again tonight?"
"No. You're fine."
Only after receiving a firm answer did Johnny leave with some peace of mind.
Skye watched him go and asked,
"Will he really be able to control that skull-headed thing?"
"He should.
He is the Ghost Rider, after all. If he can't control it, he'll eventually lose his mind entirely. Mephisto would have to pick a new contract holder, and the title of Ghost Rider would shift.
But Johnny Blaze is destined to be the Ghost Rider—
he'll get there."
Lucas knew the "plot."
Johnny succeeding was inevitable.
Back home, Johnny stripped down and sat cross-legged on his bed.
He recalled Lucas's words—
it was essentially meditation.
That much he knew how to do.
At first, nothing happened.
But as time passed, just as Lucas had said—
A tiny blue flame emerged in the depths of Johnny's consciousness, flickering violently as though trying to break free from some unseen constraint.
Johnny instantly understood:
this was the Spirit of Vengeance.
And strangely—
he could feel it was him.
Something he could control.
He reached toward it with his mind.
At first, the Spirit rebelled wildly.
But Johnny was patient.
Bit by bit, his consciousness connected to the flame.
Gradually, the Spirit quieted.
It no longer thrashed wildly—
the fire softened, becoming almost gentle.
Johnny's excitement surged.
He had done it.
He'd taken the first step toward true control.
When he opened his eyes again, dawn light filled the room.
He had meditated all night—
but it was worth it.
He could now clearly sense that the Spirit no longer raged uncontrollably,
nor would it seize his consciousness at random.
He rushed back to Lucas's office and shared the good news.
Lucas nodded, unsurprised.
He told Johnny to keep doing it every day until he achieved full mastery.
Johnny went home in high spirits.
For the first time, he saw hope—
hope that he wouldn't live like a rabid monster anymore.
A few days later, Johnny had complete control over the Spirit of Vengeance.
He could transform at will, and Hellfire no longer burned him—
in fact, it felt warm.
That same night, deep in a barren desert, a sinister wind began to howl.
Sand whipped upward, forming a miniature sandstorm.
From its center, a lone figure emerged.
Dressed head to toe in black, skin pale as death, deep shadows under his eyes—
he looked every bit the embodiment of gothic metal.
This was Blackheart—
Mephisto's unfilial son.
He had come for the Contract of San Venganza.
With it, he could dethrone his father
and take the throne of Hell for himself.
He surveyed the empty wasteland, then turned his gaze toward a distant cluster of lights—
a small town.
A minute later, he pushed open the doors of the town's saloon.
The once-boisterous bar fell silent instantly,
save for the music still playing.
The place was perfectly "old west,"
from decorations to atmosphere.
Blackheart strode to the bar, grabbed a waiter by the collar.
"Where is the Contract of San Venganza?"
His voice was cold, eyes even colder.
"What the hell are you talking about? Are you sick? Let go!"
The "waiter" was a burly cowboy built like a wall—
not someone easily intimidated by a pale, frail-looking stranger.
Blackheart grinned.
Rows of razor-sharp teeth flashed like a shark's.
He opened his jaws wide and bit off the man's entire face.
"F—! He's a maniac!"
The woman behind the bar shouted.
She pulled a shotgun from beneath the counter and fired.
Half of Blackheart's head exploded,
only for black mist to seep from the wound
and regrow his missing skull moments later.
He turned his gaze on the woman—
his eyes glowing red.
She fell into a trance,
raised the gun to her own head,
and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Blackheart turned back to the rest of the bar, smiling—
bits of flesh still caught between his teeth.
"So… does anyone know where the Contract of San Venganza is?"
No one answered.
Everyone opened fire instead.
Gunshots erupted like a hailstorm,
muzzle flashes lighting the entire bar.
When the barrage ended,
Blackheart looked like a perforated sieve—
but he didn't fall.
Dark smoke curled from every wound,
and within seconds he was whole again.
If you'd like, I can translate the next chapter as well.
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