Chapter 18: The Ghost in the Box

The laboratory wasn’t far—normally, a ten-minute walk. Robbie, after all, was an amateur racecar driver. The “Dodge Warhorse,” modified by Hellfire, packed enough power for him not to care about wear and tear. Robbie floored it, passing every car he could, weaving through traffic without a second thought. He collected a symphony of honks and curses along the way, but made it in just five minutes.

If he had the golden cheat codes of Lord Lv Wang next door, Robbie would be rolling in rewards—leveling up would be a breeze.

“Looks like Coulson and Black Widow aren’t as fast as us!” Wang hopped out of the car, glancing around—no one in sight.

He turned and gave Robbie a thumbs-up: impressive!

Robbie lifted his chin, smug. No big deal—the Ghost Rider was not to be trifled with. The legend of the Spirit of Vengeance would live on forever.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. will arrive at the scene in half an hour,” Skye reported, eyes glued to her phone as she hacked into the city’s traffic surveillance system, granting herself top-level access. A vivid red streak lit up the screen: Coulson’s bright red sports car, “Lola,” eye-catching as could be.

Flamethrowers, the world’s first GPS, a flying car—one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s prized antiques and Coulson’s favorite. He never let anyone else drive it, nor would he let anyone touch it when it was parked.

The thing was, his driving skills were mediocre, and he’d even given his car a woman’s name…

Speaking of which, was he ever married? Did he solve his needs with the car? Which part, exactly?

The thought alone was oddly enticing.

“Time’s short, let’s move,” Wang cut to the chase, heading straight for the entrance.

The laboratory door looked unremarkable, but was actually exceptionally sturdy—nothing like those flashy, useless things outside. One of these could buy a hundred of those. After all, this was a lab dealing in black-market technology. Roxxon had poured untold sums, both above and below the table, into this place. The equipment inside was worth a fortune—tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars each. If a thief made off with anything, the money lost would be nothing compared to the pain of a technology leak.

“I’ll do it!” Skye and Robbie spoke in unison.

They locked eyes, sparks flying:

Trying to steal my thunder (or my job)?

“This is a high-tech lock with a retina scanner. Wang, give me thirty seconds and I’ll crack it.” Skye’s fingers danced across her phone, her words pouring out as fast as rain, launching the software to get to work.

This kind of lock was nothing, not even beginner level for a member of the Rising Tide.

Robbie’s eyes blazed red. “I only need one second!”

Hellfire wasn’t real fire, but burning out a circuit? Child’s play. The Ghost Rider possessed strength far beyond a normal human—he’d broken through S.H.I.E.L.D.’s high-strength fiber isolation rooms before. What was a mere door to him?

A hand stopped him.

“…Don’t destroy it.”

One needed thirty seconds, the other just one. Women really did have more endurance… Wang massaged his temples, wondering what kind of people he’d gotten himself involved with.

One was a freewheeling hacker, slipping in and out of major organizations’ intranets and archives as if they were open doors, carrying a multitude of aliases, regularly exposing government secrets, covert projects, or the evidence and hideouts of criminals online—yet always skating the line of legality, simultaneously loved and hated by the government, military, and police.

The other, a seemingly ordinary and honest mechanic by day, who transformed into the Ghost Rider by night—showing no mercy to criminals, regardless of the severity of their crimes, leaving no survivors, and carrying a tainted, overzealous sense of justice.

Didn’t they realize they were leaving evidence behind with every move?

Wang sighed, pressing his left hand against the door.

Threads of true energy snaked out, manipulating the lock’s core. With a pleasant mechanical chime, the door swung open.

Skye and Wang: “…”

You could do that the whole time? Why wait until we finished speaking? Was this on purpose?

It really wasn’t, Wang thought, but you two were so eager…

Ignoring them, he clasped his hands behind his back and strode inside, every step exuding the poise of a master. That kind of bearing can’t be faked.

The moment he entered, a chill crept over him.

This chill had nothing to do with temperature—it was a sensation that gnawed at the mind and spirit, reminding Wang of his experience purifying Stratholme. It wasn’t the cold, but the gloom.

The gloom of restless spirits.

There was a spectral presence here, but something peculiar was blocking it—so thoroughly that even most demons or the undead wouldn’t sense a thing.

Had he not spent a past life constantly battling the undead, ridding the world of thousands upon thousands, Wang might not have had even this vague inkling.

Not that it mattered.

He’d known from the start what haunted this place.

He followed the corridor, opening several doors, before reaching the most important room in the lab.

A massive reactor furnace dominated the far end. Beside it stood two laptops and five large cases.

These were, in fact, batteries.

Cables ran from the reactor to the cases. The furnace was still running, its azure glow filling the room—clearly, it was powering the cases.

“What is this?” Skye and Robbie hurried in behind him, catching sight of the scene. “Wang, is the Darkhold in these cases?”

“No, something far more terrifying,” Wang replied.

Robbie’s eyes flared again—the Spirit of Vengeance was restless.

Whatever was in those cases was linked to the dark world, to that hellish place he’d barely escaped. It filled him with loathing, more so even than murderers who’d slaughtered dozens.

It came from another dimension—a realm that intertwined magic and quantum mechanics.

“They’re ghosts,” Wang said offhandedly.

He half-expected Skye to shriek or mock the idea, to insist ghosts didn’t exist and that science should be respected.

But she didn’t.

Perhaps having met the Ghost Rider, she was immune or at least mentally prepared. More likely, it was her own remarkable courage—whether inherited from her Inhuman mother, who’d been dismembered and resurrected, or her madman father.

Far from frightened, her eyes lit up with excitement. She immediately asked, “There really are ghosts in this world? Can you let them out so I can see? What do they look like? Are they like American ghosts, or Japanese ones? Or maybe like Chinese or Indian spirits? Is there really a hell?”

She rattled off several questions, finally turning to Robbie with a look of anticipation: “You—or the Spirit of Vengeance inside you—have you ever been to hell?”

“There are ghosts, and there is a hell,” Wang replied with a smile. I’ve killed many.

He wondered if the ghosts of World of Warcraft were the same as those in the Marvel universe.

They should be, at least based on how they felt.

Is there only one hell?

The Marvel universe had more than one—otherwise, where would all those hell lords come from? What was called “hell” was, in truth, an extra dimension. The sorcerers of Kamar-Taj would surely know this well.

Speaking of Kamar-Taj, their sorcerers always guarded the earth and watched over any who could threaten it. Did they never keep tabs on the Ghost Rider?

Or did they simply not consider him worth their attention?

Their leader, the Sorcerer Supreme, the Ancient One, was said to be on par with Dormammu and Odin…

Wang glanced at Robbie.

The Spirit of Vengeance inside him was, in essence, an entity that had escaped from hell.

For certain reasons, the Spirit of Vengeance had to merge with someone burning with an overwhelming desire for retribution, transforming them into a Ghost Rider—that was how it survived in this world.

For the Spirit of Vengeance, the hunger for revenge was sustenance, nourishment—the food that kept it anchored here.

When a Ghost Rider lost their lust for vengeance, the spirit had to find a new host.

That was how each generation of Ghost Rider was replaced.

Wang walked over and wrenched open the topmost case.

A glow, invisible to ordinary eyes, burst forth—an orange-yellow radiance that coalesced into a ghost as gloomy as could be.

As if someone had cultivated for three days and nights without sleep.