Although the Human Torch had not been struck by the hellfire-enchanted chain, he immediately understood one thing.
This opponent was not ordinary.
Hovering in the air, Johnny frowned as he studied the flaming skeleton below. The chain that had extended unnaturally from five meters to thirty was not something conventional fire could accomplish. More importantly, the flames themselves felt wrong.
They were not simply hot.
They carried a presence.
A weight.
An oppressive, ancient heat that felt fundamentally different from his own plasma-like combustion.
Is this even a mutant?
That doubt surfaced for the first time.
Before Johnny could reassess, Ghost Rider opened his jaw and released a guttural, animalistic roar. The sound echoed off the buildings like a distorted engine backfire. Without hesitation, he resumed swinging the hellfire-wreathed chain.
For a moment, he resembled a Western gunslinger twirling a lasso—except the lasso burned with divine retribution.
Johnny braced for another aerial strike.
Instead, Ghost Rider pivoted sharply and hurled the chain toward the fleeing gang members. The flaming metal streaked through the night like red lightning, snapping around the criminals in an instant.
With a casual tug, Ghost Rider yanked them back.
They flew helplessly toward him.
The moment they reached him, hellfire consumed them completely. There were no screams—only ash.
Johnny's expression stiffened.
Ghost Rider then bent down and picked up a fallen pistol.
Glock 17.
Hellfire surged across the weapon.
Before Johnny's eyes, the polymer frame warped and blackened. Bone-like ridges formed along the grip. The slide glowed red. Within seconds, the handgun had become a grotesque ghost firearm wrapped in golden flames.
That was when Johnny realized this was escalating.
Ghost Rider raised the weapon.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Demonized bullets tore upward at blistering speed.
Johnny darted through the air, weaving between shots. Even in flame form, he was not bulletproof. A direct hit would injure him.
Ghost Rider emptied the magazine.
Then hellfire condensed within the chamber itself.
He began firing again.
This time, the bullets were pure hellfire constructs.
Gunshots echoed violently between buildings.
Johnny counterattacked while evading. He launched rapid-fire blasts downward, detonations blooming around Ghost Rider like artillery strikes.
The street became a battlefield of flame and smoke.
Residents emerged onto balconies. Phones appeared. Calls were made.
Police.
Emergency services.
And, of course, recordings.
The night skyline flickered with orange light.
…
At the charity dinner, Richard remained unaware of the confrontation.
He had just transferred the auctioned jewelry into system space and was preparing to leave with Fina.
Ghost Rider had not appeared here.
Perhaps he would not.
As Richard guided Fina toward the exit, Wilson Fisk intercepted him once more.
"Mr. Wesley," Fisk said smoothly. "If I may request a few minutes of your time."
Richard studied him briefly.
"What is it?"
"There is a matter I would prefer to discuss privately."
Richard considered for half a second.
"Very well."
He turned to Fina. "Wait in the car."
She nodded and left without protest.
Fisk gestured toward a negotiation room adjacent to the main hall. His men remained outside as he and Richard entered. The door closed behind them.
Richard selected a seat at random.
"If this is about expanding your criminal empire," he said evenly, "save your breath. I have no interest."
Fisk chuckled softly as he poured two glasses of whiskey.
"I assure you, Mr. Wesley, global domination is not why I sought you out."
He handed a glass across the table.
Richard accepted it and took a measured sip.
Excellent quality.
"I have a competitor," Fisk continued. "A powerful one. I cannot determine whether he is a mutant. But he is… formidable."
Fisk slid a folder across the table.
"I would like you to handle him."
Richard opened it.
The moment he saw the photographs, recognition was immediate.
Wenwu.
The Ten Rings.
Additional references flickered in his mind—Ta Lo, ancient artifacts, rumored mysticism.
Interesting.
He read the file carefully.
According to Fisk's intelligence, the Ten Rings organization had remained active for decades without interruption. That diverged from certain cinematic interpretations he remembered.
If Wenwu had never retired, then he likely had not abandoned leadership for marriage.
Which meant…
Perhaps there was no Shang-Chi.
A small flicker of disappointment surfaced.
But then another thought followed.
This was not the movie timeline.
Just as Franklin Richards must exist regardless of Reed's marital status, Wenwu's child—if he had one—would still be Shang-Chi.
Parallel inevitabilities.
Richard's eyes sharpened slightly.
The possibility remained.
Fisk observed him carefully.
"I can provide any compensation within my capability," Fisk said. "Name your price."
Richard closed the folder.
In truth, he did not care about payment.
He cared about opportunity.
For some time now, after eliminating figures like Captain America and the Dark Phoenix, he had considered what came next. With his strength secure and no longer needing to conceal himself, what should he do?
He had reached a conclusion.
Remove those he found intolerable.
Certain figures in this universe irritated him beyond reason.
If Shang-Chi existed—and resembled the insufferable, sanctimonious version he remembered—Richard would not hesitate.
Consequences?
Celestials. Cosmic attention. Political fallout.
It did not matter.
If something lived, it could be killed.
If it could not be killed, that simply meant he was not yet strong enough.
He placed the folder on the table.
"I will consider it," Richard said calmly.