Chapter 4: The Fourth Generation Ghost Rider

Inside the truck.

Sky was in the driver’s seat, her palms sweaty. This was the Fifth Street Gang they were dealing with—over a dozen men, all armed, and on their side, only two people, neither with a gun. Charging in like this—if you wanted to get yourself killed, there were easier ways.

“Wang… maybe… we should retreat? You know, strategically?” Sky’s voice trembled.

She was only nineteen! She’d never been in a situation this intense before.

“It’s fine. Once I get out, drive the truck away. Come back for me in a little while,” Old Wang replied, his tone relaxed.

This was nothing—a minor scene, hardly worth mentioning. After all, he’d survived the Scourge, fought in the Battle of Ahn’Qiraj, even stormed the Burning Legion’s headquarters on another world. What were a dozen armed men compared to that?

Ever faced a planet-sized Titan? That’s something to be afraid of.

He might be far from his former self before crossing over, but he was still a cut above ordinary folk.

Guns? They were nothing. He’d taken direct hits from Fel cannons and walked away.

“Just be careful!” Sky didn’t try to act tough. She knew her own limits—if she forced herself to join in, she’d only be a burden. Besides, Wang wasn’t foolish—if he was confident enough to come, he must have some plan.

Old Wang got out, carrying a box, and walked toward Peter, looking as relaxed as could be.

What was in the box? Money? Not a chance. Just a handy rolling pin and half a bottle of cheap liquor. The box was only a prop to let him approach the enemy.

He was ready to act at any moment.

The gang was clearly prepared too; over a dozen men couldn’t escape his perception. That was one benefit of being reborn three times—his soul was strong, so his mental senses were sharp. Maybe he couldn’t thrash Daredevil, but he wouldn’t fare too badly either.

Suddenly, Old Wang sensed something was wrong. He turned and saw a car barreling straight toward them.

Black, with prominent headlights and a rugged, masculine profile—such cars were rare these days, and absurdly expensive. But what kind of mind came up with that design? It made no sense aerodynamically, guzzled fuel, wasn’t even fast—what was the point?

“A 1969 Dodge Charger muscle car?” Old Wang recognized it instantly. Not that he knew much about cars—he couldn’t have identified a Dodge emblem or model if his life depended on it.

What made this car stand out was that it was on fire.

That’s right—the wheels and body were ablaze, leaving twin trails of flame in its wake. And these flames radiated a sinister, almost familiar aura, reminiscent of the Burning Legion he’d often clashed with, whose home world he’d once ravaged.

Hellfire—the signature of the Ghost Rider.

The first three Ghost Riders all rode motorcycles; before them, one rode a horse. Only the fourth generation drove a 1969 Dodge Charger. The difference was stark—a Charger could buy out all three previous rides. That’s how Old Wang deduced it.

“What was the fourth Ghost Rider’s name, again?”

“And did he have a grudge with the Fifth Street Gang?”

Old Wang searched his memory, and then it clicked.

No wonder the names Robbie Reyes and Fifth Street Gang sounded so familiar—they’d appeared in “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Robbie Reyes was the fourth Ghost Rider, and he did, in fact, have a blood feud with the Fifth Street Gang.

Even as Old Wang recalled this, the Dodge Charger sped straight toward the gang’s car.

“Fuck! Stop that car!” Peter was stunned and fired his gun in panic.

Who just rams cars like that? That thing was worth more than his own life—wouldn’t the owner care if it got wrecked?

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The others opened fire too, bullets striking the Charger, but it made no difference. Not even a bullet hole.

The car wasn’t just ablaze—the windshield was tougher than titanium, impervious to bullets.

Peter was utterly stunned. This wasn’t an armored vehicle—was it modified?

Wait… a Dodge Charger?

A chill crept up Peter’s spine as he remembered. That car belonged to Eli. It had burned to a crisp two weeks ago—how was it now untouched?

He’d fired several shots through the side window back then, wounding Eli’s two nephews. The Charger had flipped and caught fire.

He even remembered the license plate—unchanged.

This was supernatural.

Back in the truck, Sky’s jaw dropped into an “O.” She grabbed her phone and started filming—wasn’t this some Hollywood blockbuster?

Old Wang didn’t need to look back to know what face Sky was making. He thought the girl had promise—he’d have to train her properly.

He set the box down, folded his arms, and watched the show.

This was a “Spirit Car.”

Every Ghost Rider, at the moment of their creation, gets a Spirit Car—transformed by hellfire. Its defenses weren’t truly invincible, but ordinary bullets couldn’t harm it, and even if something broke, like the windshield, it would heal almost instantly.

To put it simply, when a Ghost Rider touched their Spirit Car, the vehicle became an extension of their body, sharing their powers. It was no ordinary machine.

The Spirit Car was alive.

Peter swallowed hard.

This car must have clawed its way out of hell—come for his soul.

Were Eli’s two nephews behind the wheel?

God help me, send an angel to destroy them!

Peter was the second-in-command of the Fifth Street Gang, so his nerves were strong. Immediately, he flung open the door to escape, shouting for his men to open fire.

Crash!

The two cars collided. The gang’s car was sent flying, engulfed in hellfire. Several men crawled out, their bodies ablaze, screaming, begging for mercy, desperately clawing at the ground in a futile attempt to survive.

This was hellfire—no high-pressure hose could put it out.

And despite the ferocious collision, the Dodge Charger didn’t even slow down. Its power source was no longer an engine, but hellfire itself.

The door swung open, and a man with a flaming skull for a head, his frame thin and wiry, stepped out, dragging a chain. The hellfire in his hand spread along the chain, which left a blackened furrow in the ground as it dragged.

Majestic, imposing—his entrance was flawless.

At the sight, Peter gasped, certain he’d seen a ghost. He recognized the outfit—it was the same man he’d shot dead, Robbie, Eli’s nephew.

Had he really crawled out of hell to take revenge?

Peter tried to run, but his legs were jelly. Cursing his own weakness, he shouted, “RPG! Fire! Fire!”

Whoosh!

A rocket-propelled grenade flew in from the distance.

The target was clearly Robbie.

But whether from nerves or poor aim, the shot was off—it was headed straight for Old Wang.

“I’m the protagonist here!” Old Wang sighed.

All that effort—researching, setting up the meeting, preparing to snatch the goods. It was a perfect plan, almost in hand, and then a Ghost Rider shows up to steal the show?

They were fighting as if he didn’t exist—was he invisible?

Fine, he thought, I’ll just watch. But now they’ve dragged me into their mess.

Fifth Street Gang, you’re digging your own graves…

He limbered up, then made his move.