Foreword:
Before I started writing this story, I read all the Ghost Rider comics. The character is vivid, cool, and dynamic, but incredibly inconsistent. Even his source of power keeps changing—at first, it was a demonic curse, then an Aztec deity, then a heavenly blessing, and then it changed over and over again…
His power level also fluctuates wildly from writer to writer. One day, Ghost Rider is the strongest being in the universe, and the next, he's getting beaten by a mere mortal—Wilson Fisk. (I'm not exaggerating; that's an actual comic book plot.)
I've reworked all the rules of Ghost Rider into a single cohesive system. I recommend forgetting the movie plots so they don't spoil your impression. Most of the new rules will be introduced in the prologue. These rules will also apply to some other characters with godlike power levels.
So, enjoy!
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Every partygoer has had that moment—waking up in an unfamiliar place with no idea how they got there. Like, yesterday, you were mixing beer and vodka at a college party, and today, you wake up at a bus stop in another city. Of course, there's no one around to explain what the hell happened.
If you asked John, he'd say nothing dumber could possibly exist.
His vision blurred, his stomach churned. The moment he tried to sit up, he threw up his dinner.
Eggs with… a Snickers bar? That couldn't be right.
[Where the hell am I?] John glanced around the windowless room. It looked like an abandoned building—used syringes in the corner, shattered bottles on the floor.
A classic crash pad for junkies and the homeless.
The perfect place for summoning demons.
[What the hell am I even thinking?]
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he noticed the candles, the pictogram, and the goat's corpse in the center of the room.
[I need to get out of here. Now!]
He was about to run when a strict rule surfaced in his mind: Never leave ritual traces behind unless you want some dumb kids to summon a demon.
His body moved on its own—stomping out the candles, smearing blood-soaked symbols with his shoe, and kicking the goat's corpse off the summoning circle. Not perfect, but he was in no state to find a mop.
[Screw it. I just need to get out of here!]
Leaning against the wall for support, he slowly made his way toward the exit.
Stepping outside, John took a deep breath. The fresh air cleared his head a little. His stomach had settled, but the fog in his mind still lingered.
[Where am I?]
He walked through an industrial district. Kids played soccer, men returned from the factory, their wives keeping an eye on them and the children. Most people ignored him, but a few glanced his way like he was an outsider.
[At least something here makes sense. I don't know who these people are either.]
The fog in his head thickened with every step. He just wanted to collapse on the nearest bench and sleep. His body insisted this was a matter of survival. The temptation was strong.
[No!]
He slapped his face several times to wake himself up. It barely helped.
[I can't sleep outside. I need to find a safe place.]
Forcing himself forward, he kept walking, though he had no idea where he was going. His mind was moments away from shutting down, but his legs kept moving.
Somehow, he made it to a motel. He unlocked a room door with a key he found in his jacket pocket. Without taking off his shoes, he collapsed onto the bed and passed out.
He had no strength for anything else.
///
He woke up a few days later. His body wouldn't have minded sleeping another three days, but his stomach demanded food.
"I know who I am… and what happened," John muttered as he left the room and headed to the nearest diner.
He ordered the daily special—double portion. Other customers looked at his unshaven face with disdain, but he didn't care. Right now, he needed to regain his strength.
Chewing mechanically on his chicken, he reflected on everything that had happened.
There exists John Blaze. A thirty-year-old man living in an ordinary world. Unmarried. Bad-tempered. From early childhood, he won chess tournaments but eventually realized they didn't pay as much as he wanted, so in high school, he switched to poker. Sometimes, he went to Marvel movies with a girl.
There exists Johnny Blaze. A twenty-six-year-old man living in the real Marvel universe. Unmarried. Naïve in nature. A stuntman by profession. He doesn't even know that parallel universes exist—ones without magic or superheroes.
Due to a ritual performed by Johnny, their souls switched places.
Right now, the soul's memory is synchronizing with the brain's memory. John had no idea how that was possible, but that's exactly what was happening. That's the only reason he could have two sets of memories—his own and Johnny's.
Thanks to this method, there was no panic, which any normal person would definitely experience. It's terrifying to suddenly find yourself in an unknown place. But for John, it was different. It felt like he had lived twenty-six years in a world of superheroes, then thirty years in an ordinary world, and now he was back among superheroes again. It was strange, but not scary at all.
John looked out the window at his reflection to confirm this was real. Staring back at him was a face both familiar and unfamiliar—a young man with dark hair.
[Thank God, I don't look like Nicolas Cage at all!] He smirked slightly, now examining his own gray eyes. [But I don't look like that comic book chicken either.]
That was both good and bad.
Bad, because in his past life, John had seen Marvel movies. With knowledge of future events, he could have risen high. Unfortunately, just his appearance was enough to confirm there was no connection to the MCU here.
Good, because in his past life, John had barely read comics. Sure, as a kid, people often reminded him that he shared a name with a famous antihero, so out of curiosity, he checked out some comics—but quickly lost interest. If this new life followed the comics exactly and he didn't know them, that would have been a disaster. But now? Who cares.
For several days, he synchronized with the body's memories and discovered some major differences. This Johnny had gained the Ghost Rider's powers before meeting Mephisto. He had been a delinquent and a biker, once illegally sneaking onto an archaeological dig where he stole an artifact—the Cross of Zarathos.
John stopped eating his chicken and rolled up his jacket sleeve. On his wrist, like a bracelet, hung a small silver cross. At first glance, an unremarkable trinket, but the inscription on the back was interesting: "Only the worthy may lift this and gain the power of the Ghost Rider."
That sounded a lot like Thor's canon, but the worthiness rules were weird. Calling a delinquent and a thief "worthy" was a stretch—but then again, Zarathos had his own preferences.
Either way, it worked. Johnny became the Ghost Rider—a true force in the magical world. Naturally, all the big players took notice, including Mephisto. The bastard gave Johnny's father cancer and then demanded his soul in exchange for a cure. Fortunately, Johnny had already beaten the devil, reclaimed his soul, and forced Mephisto to swear never to come near him again.
That was great news! Fighting all of Hell was not on John's to-do list.
Now, he needed to organize his thoughts on the most important part.
What is Zarathos?
A shard of infinity, created at the birth of the universe. A force fueled by the desire for vengeance. Every time a being thinks about retribution, their thoughts feed Zarathos.
Can Zarathos be killed?
Yes. If every sentient being in the universe dies, Zarathos will disappear, having no purpose.
Does Zarathos have a mind?
No. It's essentially an infinite energy battery. No thoughts, no emotions.
Can this energy be used for anything?
No. It is vengeance energy, meant solely for punishing sinners. With some effort, it can enhance vehicles. But even igniting a tiny spark to light a cigarette? Impossible.
Why "Zarathos"?
That's what demons in Hell called this energy millions of years ago. Since then, the name has spread throughout the magical community.
How did Zarathos end up inside the Cross?
Millions of years ago, Zarathos, in the form of a fiery tornado, roamed across the cosmos, burning entire planets to ashes. One day, he descended into Hell itself, scorching through its layers, advancing deeper and deeper. The greatest archdemons challenged him, but it was useless. He was a force of the universe—impossible to kill.
On the final, nine hundred ninety-ninth, circle of Hell, Satan began to worry. He embarked on a journey, obtained an unknown metal, and in the abyssal forge, he crafted the Cross. For one hundred days and one hundred nights, Satan battled Zarathos in his own domain, and at last, he managed to seal him away. He had gained one of the most powerful weapons in existence… but he couldn't use it.
Even imprisoned, Zarathos imposed his own worthiness rules, and his captor did not meet the requirements. Enraged, Satan cast the Cross into space. Millions of years passed, the Cross changed hands countless times, traveling across the galaxy until it ended up on Earth, in the hands of a biker named Johnny Blaze.
Are there rules for using it?
Yes. Only two:
1. Punish the wicked. If you go too long without killing evildoers, the flame overtakes your mind and controls your bones at will. From the outside, it looks like a mindless death machine. The madness mode shuts off once enough sinners have been punished.
2. Do not kill the innocent. Penalty: Zarathos burns your soul.
Seems simple enough. Not a curse, but a blessing. For "work," you receive an invulnerable body and infinite combat potential. And so Johnny lived: by night, he hunted down criminals and demons; by day, he challenged Mephisto for his soul.
But recently, Johnny learned another truth: Ghost Riders live no more than five years.
Even a demonic artifact cannot fully suppress the destructive influence of an Infinity Shard. Zarathos slowly grinds down the soul of its host.
Desperate for salvation, Johnny scoured every corner of Hell, but it was futile—there was no cure. Throwing the artifact away was pointless—it always returned. The moment he first grasped it, a spiritual bond had been formed.
Johnny eventually tracked down a renowned collector in Hell and traded all his magical junk for a soul-release ritual—the one with the goat's head. But something clearly went wrong.
Now, as John, armed with both sets of memories, he realized the collector had tricked him. That ritual didn't extract Zarathos—it swapped their bodies. Two identical souls from different universes had switched places.
Only such a precise spiritual match could explain why Zarathos hadn't noticed the swap yet.
Johnny had probably already merged both sets of memories himself and figured out what had happened.
By the way, he was never coming back. His new world, utterly devoid of magic, had no ingredients for another ritual.
Not that it would bother him. Johnny had always longed for a normal life.
Besides, he only had two weeks left to live. He had been clinging to straws. His scorched soul could barely sustain even the simplest spells.
[How much time do I have left? Please, give me a full five years.]
John closed his eyes, listening to his own soul—unburned, unscathed.
[I have thirteen months.]
John loudly dropped his utensils onto the table.
Damn. His hands were shaking.
Now he was truly afraid.
Other customers shot him disdainful looks. Screw them. They weren't the ones with barely a year left to live.
Inhale. Exhale.
[No matter the problem, always stay calm. A useful skill I picked up from chess and perfected in poker.]
"More coffee, please," John ordered.
Caffeine and sugar always helped him think.
Two cups of coffee and a dessert later, his problems hadn't disappeared—but his mood had improved.
It was too early to panic. After all, he could always repeat the body-switching ritual. He had the occult shop's address in his memories.
Maybe, if he got lucky, he'd land in a universe where Zarathos grants power without killing its host.
But with the same odds, he might end up in Johnny's body—the one that lost to Mephisto and was doomed to suffer in Hell for eternity.
Only the truly desperate play a game with stakes like that.
If all else failed, and he had just one day left, then he'd have to take the gamble.
Until then, John swore to fight to the very end.
[I don't know yet if I like this new life or not, but I sure as hell won't throw it away until I find out.]