Chapter 43: The Demons of Hell Set Their Sights on Cybertronian Souls

Hell.

A realm wholly unique in nature, existing outside the Multiverse, yet somehow tethered to it through arcane laws all its own. It is a liminal world, a nexus of the damned that can, with enough force or cunning, pierce into any of the infinite realities spread across the cosmic web.

And within this realm dwell unspeakable evils; demons ravenous for the succulent souls scattered throughout the Multiverse. Even without ready-made gateways, they will claw through dimensions just to reach their prey.

Of them, Mephisto is undeniably the most active.

A diabolical entity whispered about across worlds, Mephisto delights in weaving contracts of doom across countless Earths, tricking foolish mortals into selling their souls, savoring the torment etched on their faces as he reaps their pain.

For him, souls saturated in despair and agony are the sweetest delicacy.

And now, his eyes have settled on a new kind of quarry.

A species never before encountered on Earth, at least, not in the universes he frequents. Yet even from afar, he could sense the overwhelming allure. Something about them called to the deepest, most ravenous parts of him.

"Oh… they're called Transformers, are they?"

"These mechanical lifeforms… their souls are utterly divine. So pure, so vast. Positively intoxicating."

Lounging in his obsidian throne, Mephisto absentmindedly scrolled through reports on his smartphone, stories about the Transformers and the mysterious figure known as Martin. His wicked smile widened with every swipe.

"Exquisite. A whole new category of souls, just waiting to be harvested."

His grin turned manic as he set the phone down, his mind already racing with schemes.

"That blowhard Cytorrak might rule the demons of Hell through raw force, but soon he'll see, I am the true supreme demon. I will surpass him."

Mephisto's eyes gleamed with malevolent ambition. Earth was familiar territory. He had avatars active on dozens of its variants across the Multiverse.

But never before had he encountered beings like the Transformers.

"My faithful servant… Johnny," he said, turning to the leather-clad young man straddling a blazing motorcycle.

"Bring me these Transformers in sufficient numbers, and I'll grant you your freedom."

Johnny Blaze clenched his fists, defiant, but the Spirit of Vengeance stirring inside him had other plans.

In a flash of hellfire, his body was overtaken. His skull ignited. The motorcycle roared to life, transforming into a flaming chariot of justice and wrath.

The Ghost Rider had risen.

"Remember your promise, Mephisto," Ghost Rider growled, his voice like molten steel.

"Break it, and I'll return to burn you to ash."

With that, he peeled off, leaving twin trails of hellfire across the realm.

Mephisto watched him vanish with cold, calculating eyes.

"The Transformers are interesting, yes, but what truly fascinates me is the force behind their creation. This Martin… He's either a vessel for some Supreme God, or he's wielding an artifact even I don't know about."

To forge perfect, complete souls in such quantities… That kind of creative power shouldn't exist. Mephisto knew of no precedent, there had to be a reason behind it.

Ghost Rider was merely his pawn.

And what a dramatic entrance the Ghost Rider made.

A fiery skeletal figure roaring across the ocean on a flaming motorcycle, heading west, straight toward the African continent.

The spectacle shattered public understanding.

A fire-wreathed bike driving on water? With a literal burning skull as its rider?

Sure, the world had seen gods, aliens, and sorcerers, but this? Even by modern standards, this was pushing the envelope.

"Hmph. The stench of sin is everywhere. These souls cry out for judgment."

Ghost Rider growled as he rolled onto the shores of Wakanda-adjacent territory, toward a newly established base.

But the moment he arrived, he froze.

Something massive loomed from within the base.

A 305-meter-tall titan, engulfed in ancient flame, emerged with thunderous steps. With a single earthshaking stomp, he crushed the Spirit of Vengeance into the dirt.

BOOM!

Ghost Rider vanished beneath the creature's foot.

"Hellfire… How revolting."

The being's voice rumbled like a volcano.

Surtur, the Fire Giant of Muspelheim, lifted his foot and sneered. His foul mood lifted, if only slightly.

After all, he had every right to be furious.

Defeated by Odin, his Eternal Flame sealed away, he had waited eons for resurrection. And when he finally returned?

He found himself a servant, summoned from the Nine Realms to this backwater world of mortals.

Yes, he had rejoined with the Eternal Flame, but the process had been agonizing.

His anger was unending.

Crushing this insect beneath his feet had helped… a little.

But then, the fire still burned.

Ghost Rider rose from the crater, completely unfazed.

"Sinful souls… must be judged."

The flames on his skull surged with intensity. His stare locked with Surtur's.

"Look into my eyes."

The Ghost Rider's voice rang like a funeral bell.

Surtur paused, and for a moment, the world held its breath.

Then a pressure rippled outward, a fragment of Skyfather-tier might emanating from the Fire Giant. The sheer intensity quelled his urge to incinerate everything in sight. With a twisted grin, he met the Ghost Rider's gaze.

BOOM!

What followed wasn't mere battle, it was a clash of principles, a war of wills. Their confrontation transcended brute strength, this was Judgment vs. Destruction.

Elsewhere, seated comfortably within the base, Martin watched the showdown unfold on his monitors.

"So… Ghost Rider's shown up. That means Hell's got its eye on me."

"No… they're after my ability to create perfect souls."

He sighed, already understanding the implications with a single glance.

Maybe it was time to kill a few of Hell's heavy hitters, for stress relief, of course.

Of all the demons of Hell, only two truly concerned him:

The enigmatic One Below All, the abyss that underlies existence itself.

And Cyttorak, the most powerful demon of the Crimson Cosmos.

The rest?

Martin could handle them.

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