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Ghost Rider. Chapter 41. The Royal Family
🕑 Added 2025-05-06 16:26:54 +0000 UTC2200 words.
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The mountains of Wakanda trembled as a crimson rift flared open in a rocky gorge—like a fresh wound, pulsing with heat. The scent of sulfur choked the air, and black smoke coiled above the peaks.
From the hellish portal burst a carriage, drawn by two infernal steeds, leaving a trail of fire beneath their hooves.
The carriage tore through the jungle, scattering leaves and charring grass. Then—like a soap bubble popping—the world shifted, and it emerged in another reality. The towering mountain ahead was gone, replaced by a futuristic city filled with flying vehicles.
The infernal carriage raced across a bridge toward the city. Automated turrets locked on the swift intruder but didn’t fire. Enormous gates of pure vibranium swung open to welcome the guests.
The hell-steeds skidded to a stop within the kingdom, snorting jets of flame from their nostrils.
An honor guard of Dora Milaje stood at attention—women in tiger pelts wielding high-tech spears. Nearby, scientists in white coats gathered, led by Shuri, the king’s sister.
A welcoming melody began to play—a fusion of traditional Wakandan drums and shamanic chants.
Wakanda’s sacred animals—panthers—watched from a distant hill.
The royal family stepped out of the hell-carriage slowly and regally:
John wore a black mantle, a crown of ice adorning his skull-shaped mask.
Jane, in a white dress and a gleaming breastplate, stood as both queen and knight.
Mary wore a lavish red gown and a crown of blazing roses. A true princess.
Cain came out last, chewing on something, wearing a sunhat he apparently believed was diplomatic. A ketchup stain marked his vest. He grinned broadly and winked at the women with spears.
[That idiot ruins the moment. Should’ve left him at home… No, better let him mess up under supervision.]
King T’Challa stepped forward in regal black robes. Beside him walked a stunning woman with white hair—Ororo Munroe, also known as Storm of the X-Men and Queen of Wakanda.
Ororo made the traditional Wakandan greeting gesture—from one queen to another. A unique sign not found in any other culture. Jane returned it properly—she had studied Wakandan customs to avoid offense.
John was not so refined. He simply shook T’Challa’s hand.
“There are gifts in the carriage. From Hell, with love,” John smirked. “Though I could offer something more... exciting.”
“Talk later,” T’Challa said calmly. “First comes the official ceremony and a feast for our guests.”
The Blaze royal family was led through the city—a blend of wild jungle and futuristic tech. Skyscrapers of black glass tangled with vines. Drones buzzed overhead, trimming palm trees. Holographic signs flickered as monkeys bounded across them. Solar panels crowned rooftops, while tropical pollen danced in the air. It was a perfect harmony of nature and innovation. No exhaust fumes, no buzzing pests.
Mary stopped holding her back straight and chin high—instead, she twirled like a child at a fair.
“Wow…” slipped from her lips before she bit them, remembering she was, after all, a princess.
[I get her. It really is beautiful here. I’d want this in my kingdom.]
They were led not to the throne room, but to a chamber for political audiences.
Tapestries of different Wakandan factions lined the walls. Each representative bowed to John and stated their political stance, though he didn’t bother to remember the useless information.
The wide table was piled with Wakandan cuisine. A special vegetarian platter was brought for Mary.
Two hours passed in diplomatic charades.
John presented crimson silks. T’Challa offered a carpet in traditional Wakandan style. Both were beautiful garbage destined for the trash right after the meeting—but that’s how it’s done.
They exchanged toasts with long speeches and wishes of prosperity to both kingdoms. Again—because that’s how it’s done.
Cain yawned openly until a couple of elbows from Jane brought him back to attention. Mary tried to maintain composure, but her eyes betrayed boredom.
Things got livelier when, during the feast, the Dora Milaje performed a ceremonial dance from their culture. John didn’t enjoy it but clapped politely.
[This whole performance is pathetic nonsense disguised as respect. A bar and a beer get things done faster and with more honesty.]
At last, the glasses were empty, and the music faded. T’Challa rose—restrained, but commanding. It was time to move from parade to purpose.
“I trust our esteemed guests wouldn’t refuse a little tour,” King T’Challa said, glancing at his sister. “Shuri, show Mary our lands.”
The two princesses set off on a magical adventure. They took selfies, ate street food, wandered through markets—but did not visit the labs. Respect—at a distance.
“Dora Milaje,” T’Challa addressed his trusted guards. “Show Cain our hospitality.”
“I don’t mind a little shootout,” Cain grinned, adjusting his sunhat. “Saw a couple wild cats in the city already.”
“Black panthers are sacred animals of Wakanda,” said one of the women with a spear, her voice cold. “Hunting them is forbidden.”
“You folks even hunt at all?” Cain frowned. “Or are those spears just decoration—look sharp, never work?”
“I’ll gladly show you what I can do in combat,” she growled.
The warriors led him to a public stadium, where Cain, cracking jokes, turned the demonstration into a show—tossing Wakanda’s elite guards around like kittens. That’s how the locals met pro-wrestling.
Meanwhile, T’Challa and Ororo led John and Jane into a strategy room. The door shut. No more audience. They sat down on floor cushions—T’Challa like a statue, Ororo like a storm on the edge of breaking.
The air conditioning’s cold didn’t touch the tension thickening between their gazes. Business had begun.
“That ceremony was for the faction leaders,” T’Challa explained. “If a foreigner enters through the official gates, they want to know why.”
“Diplomatic relations with a potential ally,” John nodded knowingly. “But we both know that’s crap. There’ll never be an alliance between us.”
“You mentioned one deal in your letter,” T’Challa recalled. “We could’ve met discreetly on neutral ground—without all this charade.”
John shook his head.
“It’s all part of the plan. First, there’s no way to keep this deal secret. This makes a neat excuse for your people. Second—it’s Mary’s birthday,” he smirked. “And I promised her she’d feel like a real princess.
Anyone can book a trip to Disneyland. But Wakanda? Only I can pull that off.”
T’Challa’s jaw tightened.
Jane clutched the sides of her dress, watching John. Gratitude for Mary battled with disapproval over the manipulation.
[Sorry, love, but this is who I am—and I’m not changing.]
Ororo scoffed, as if there was nothing funny in any of this.
“But you’re not a king,” T’Challa reproached. “Ororo told me—four months ago, you lived in an RV. Your crown is fake.”
“You know what’s the easiest thing in the world? Becoming a king. Kick in the door, execute the extras, wear the crown. All it takes is power.”
A tiny snowstorm formed in his palm.
“Ask your shamans what’s happening in Hell—you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
T’Challa waved it off carelessly, acknowledging but not reacting.
“So yeah, I’m a true king. And Mary—my daughter—is a real princess,” John winked. “Now, are we going to talk business? Or keep measuring who’s cooler?”
"Before we begin, I want you to understand something," T’Challa said, looking John in the eyes. "I’m only listening to you because my wife asked me to."
"And I only agreed to this meeting because Charles Xavier asked me to," Ororo added. "I don’t trust you, John, but Charles raised me. I owe him a great deal."
[Charles intervened as payment for reconciliation with his brother. Jane did all the work for free, but I still framed it as a debt. I’m a bastard, I know.]
"Let’s get to the point," John said, pulling a small vial of glowing liquid from his pocket. "This is the super soldier serum. The one that turned Steve Rogers into a legend."
"If that’s true, you’re holding the Holy Grail of bioengineering," T’Challa said, running a finger along the glass. The distorted light played across his face. "Where did you get this?"
"That’s a secret," John smirked.
Ghost Rider, driven by purpose, had tortured the truth from old generals: since the 1940s, a few drops of the original serum had survived. Scientists had been trying to recreate it ever since. After raiding a military base, Phoenix Princess obtained one such drop—and recreated an ocean.
The Midnight Suns took the serum, but it had no effect. Their bodies were already enhanced. Still, if they ever lost their artifacts, their physical stats would remain.
"Assuming it’s real," T’Challa said slowly, eyes locked on John, "this is your offer. What do you want for it?"
"Vibranium, of course. No offense, but your holy metal is the only thing that matches the weight of this vial."
T’Challa sighed, preparing to respond, but John cut him off.
"Don’t rush to decline. A smart and beautiful woman explained Wakandan tradition to me," he said, wrapping his arm around a slightly blushing Jane. "I know you don’t share vibranium with your neighbors—it’s a military strategy. If they don’t have it, they can’t use it against you. But here’s the catch: my kingdom isn’t on Earth. That’s the real reason we’ll never be proper allies. My demons can’t travel to Earth. I can never send you reinforcements—but I also can’t wage war on you."
T’Challa hesitated, but didn’t dismiss him. That was a good sign.
"You can keep the vial to test its authenticity," John offered. "There’s not enough inside to make even one super soldier. You need half a liter."
T’Challa accepted the vial and tucked it away.
"I can give you enough serum to bathe all of Wakanda in it. You could add a hundred years to your wife’s life. Or make sure Shuri never cuts her finger in a lab again. Tempting, isn’t it?" John grinned, then quickly turned serious. "In return, I’ll ask for an equal amount—in liters—of vibranium. But!"
He raised a finger.
"This is a generous offer only while I’m in your house. If you come to mine, the price goes up." Dark shadows flickered across the face of the King of Hell. "In Hell, everything costs more."
The negotiations dragged on for hours. Meanwhile, their wives soared into the sky, hurling lightning bolts at each other like snowballs. Laughter rumbled through the heavens.
T’Challa hesitated for a long time but eventually bargained for enough serum to run a full test on a volunteer. The faction leaders clucked about "giving away national assets," but they fell silent the moment they and their families were placed at the top of the injection list.
After a handshake, the deal was sealed: ten tons of serum in exchange for ten tons of vibranium. Considering Wakanda had an entire city built out of the stuff, it wasn’t much of a loss.
Later, at home on the couch, Jane whispered into John’s ear:
"You could’ve taken the vibranium by force. Frozen the throne room. Broken T’Challa’s will. Moved all the metal to Hell," her lips brushed his, "But you chose the path of words. Reached out a hand instead of claws. And that—was for me?"
John didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Jane touched his lips.
"Then maybe…I can change too. For you."
That night didn’t end with just a kiss.
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Deep beneath the hellish ground, where magma rasped beneath the stone, construction was boiling. Red-skinned goblins—sinewy, covered in soot and burns—hauled blocks made from an unimaginable alloy: vibranium and uru, a fusion of technology and magic.
The process was personally overseen by John, standing amid the noise and fire. In one hand he held a blueprint. In the other—a lantern to push back the cave’s darkness.
There was no normal entrance here. The future scientific complex could only be reached through a special, royal portal. And only if you knew it existed. That would be enough to stop any enemy—except one.
"Expensive science base," John muttered, his banker’s heart aching.
While vibranium had been easy enough to procure from a nearby Wakanda, uru—the finest magical ore in the universe—didn’t exist on Earth. He had to negotiate with dwarves through intermediaries: dark elves. The super-soldier serum meant nothing to the dwarves—it only worked on humans. But they craved magical weapons, so a significant portion of his vault’s artifacts had to be surrendered...
"You don’t cut corners on security," John forced greed away with cold logic.
He was still shaking from how Loki bypassed every safeguard. This was the devil’s fortress! Every hellish grain of sand should scream at an intruder! But Loki had slipped past it all. Not a single curse had triggered. Not a single trap had stirred. It wasn’t just an intrusion—it was a slap in the face.
Staying in the hellish castle was no longer an option. It was unreliable—you never knew when Loki might be standing behind you with a dagger. But abandoning a place of power wasn’t an option either.
The hellish castle would become a façade. A ceremonial mask. There—receptions, training, business with the Hellstrom twins, movie nights with Jane.
And beneath it—the real fortress. A mobile scientific complex. A cloaking dome. A fusion of tech and magic would create scanners able to detect even a god’s breath.
[I know how Loki thinks. He’s not here now. He wants to play. He wants to be surprised. Loki won’t poke into my affairs until I make a proper first move in our game. But I won’t move until I place the pieces. Until I build a board he can’t read.]
