"Rick Wyllis," said the woman in the obsidian coat, her eyes glowing with the soft burn of half-truths and rebellion, "we need you to join the Exiles."
Rick was upside down.
Doing push-ups.
One-handed.
On top of the Whomping Willow, which was currently wrapped in magical duct tape and singing Britney Spears in Parseltongue.
"Cool," Rick said between reps. "Are you guys, like, a band?"
"No," she said, exasperated. "We're a secret alliance of Sequence Pathway defectors who've rejected the constraints of fate and structure."
"Ohhh," Rick said, flipping upright and dusting himself off. "So like... reality anarchists."
She blinked. "That's… not entirely wrong."
Rick grinned. "Then I'm in."
Welcome to the Sanctum of the Exiles
It was a floating, shifting city built inside a paradox: part Victorian alleyways, part alien megastructure, part Hogwarts, part nowhere. Every wall was inscribed with symbols from the Fool, Seer, Chaos Hunter, and other forbidden pathways.
There, Rick met:
Thorne, a former Sequence 5 Seer who now brewed tea strong enough to kill demons.
Izra, a Red Priest rogue who heated her room with divine rage and scented candles.
Darryl, a talking rat who claimed to have fought Cthulhu in a game of Uno.
They all stared at Rick.
Because he radiated raw, unfiltered potential—and zero regard for subtlety.
"Look," Thorne said, sipping from a cup of prophecy, "you've formed a new Sequence by accident. That's not just rare. It's dangerous."
"It's awesome," Rick corrected.
"No, it's both," Izra snapped. "You've drawn the attention of the Collector."
Rick paused. "Is that a guy who collects stamps or souls?"
"Worse," Darryl whispered. "He collects anomalies. People like you. Unstable. Powerful. Not supposed to exist."
"Oh," Rick said, cracking his knuckles. "So we're gonna punch him in the soul then?"
Meanwhile… in the skies over London
A tear in space widened. Out stepped a figure clad in iridescent armor. His face was a polished, reflective mask, showing your deepest insecurity every time you looked at it.
The Collector.
He raised a hand, and a piece of the Shardworld crumbled like sugar.
"Rick Wyllis," he whispered. "Your sequence is unbound. You belong in my archive."
Back in the Sanctum
Rick, now officially designated Sequence 8: The Overenthusiastic Puncher, stood in front of a whiteboard.
"I made a flowchart," he said proudly.
On it were three circles:PROBLEM → PUNCH → VICTORY
Izra stared. "That's not a flowchart. That's a threat."
"Exactly!" Rick beamed. "It's proactive."
Suddenly, a warning rune flared.
Dimensional breach detected. Location: ALL OF THEM.
The Collector had arrived.
Multiverse Arena: The Duel
The Exiles flung open a door to nowhere, and Rick stepped through—into a rotating battlefield shifting through three realms:
A collapsing Hogwarts corridor filled with time echoes.
A shattered version of the Sanctum Sanctorum.
A Lord of the Mysteries street where stars wept blood.
And standing at the center of it all—
The Collector.
"I am the keeper of failed gods," he intoned. "Your sequence will be cataloged."
"Yeah?" Rick said, cracking his neck. "Then catalog this!"
He hurled a glowing dodgeball straight into the Collector's chest.
The impact blasted them both into Realm Two: Fractured Sanctum, where spells ignited mid-air and the floor was made of discarded fates.
The Collector drew blades made of contract clauses and fate strings.
Rick pulled a warhammer made of pure enthusiasm and violent intentions.
They clashed.
CRACK. THOOM. SHATTER.
The duel raged across dimensions. Rick used a grappling hook made of hope. The Collector countered with a recursive prophecy loop.
Rick responded by suplexing reality.
Final Round: Lord of the Mysteries Realm
They landed in the alley where Klein once ascended.
The stars burned above like watching eyes.
Rick staggered, blood on his face, grin still intact. "Alright, Masky. Last chance."
The Collector raised a final card.
EXILE NULLIFICATION.
A canceling power. One meant to erase the new Sequence.
He flung it forward.
Rick didn't dodge.
He met it with a punch.
Not magical. Not divine.
Just pure, absolute chaos.
It shattered the card.
Reality went quiet.
The Collector staggered, his mask cracking.
"You… made a pathway out of violence and optimism. That's... impossible."
Rick leaned in.
"It's Overenthusiastic, thank you very much."
He punched him again.
The Collector vanished in a flash of unwritten fate.
Later… back in the Sanctum of the Exiles
Rick, covered in bruises and confidence, held the glowing card in his hand.
It had changed.
Now it read:
Sequence 8: Overenthusiastic PuncherDomain: Chaos, Hope, and Blunt Force Resolution
Thorne whistled. "You actually did it."
Izra shook her head. "You punched a Sequence into existence."
Rick smiled.
"I'm gonna be Sequence 1 someday," he said. "Title: The Supreme Dumbass."
And honestly?
They all believed him.