The moment Rick punched the Collector out of the timeline, something... shifted.
Not just in the air.
In everything.
The stars blinked.
The Fool card he carried started laughing.
Somewhere in the cosmos, an alarm shaped like a screaming violin went off.
Sanctum of the Exiles – 3 minutes post-punch
"Rick," Thorne said carefully, as the walls trembled and eldritch runes wept golden blood, "I think you just got the attention of... everyone."
"I was trying to," Rick said, stuffing a glowing biscuit into his mouth. "Y'know. Marketing."
Izra slapped a glowing scroll on the table. "You don't understand. The Great Old Council sent this."
"Cool," Rick mumbled through crumbs. "What's that?"
"It's not a what, it's a who. A council of reality's top-tier entities—Seers, gods, Outer Deities, a retired Phoenix, and probably a version of Batman with an existential crisis."
Darryl the rat added, "They oversee the balance of all sequences. And they don't like new ones."
Rick stared at the scroll.
It unrolled itself, and six glowing signatures pulsed like heartbeat scars.
You are summoned.
One day. One trial. One star. Survive, and your Sequence lives.
Rick grinned.
"I'm gonna punch a star, aren't I?"
Thorne groaned. "Yes, Rick. Yes, you are."
Location: The Tribunal Star, 4th Orbit of Destiny's Elbow
Suspended in an impossible sky, floating between dreams and black holes, sat a living star made of molten law and philosophical gravity.
This was the Tribunal Star.
And atop it sat the Council.
Klein Moretti, still wearing his mysterious top hat, watching Rick with a glint of curiosity and just a hint of horror.
Doctor Strange, seated, arms crossed, looking like he regretted every life decision that led to this moment.
The Celestial Archivist, a god made of origami, knowledge, and caffeine.
Mother Cataclysm, who smiled like the end of everything and knitted with threads made of dying galaxies.
The Void That Sings, a sentient song wearing a suit and bowler hat.
And finally: Stan, the embodiment of meta-narrative, chewing a cigar made of ink and multiverse tropes.
Rick stood in front of them with a name tag that said, Hi, I'm Problematic.
Stan spoke first.
"So. Rick Wyllis. Sequence 8. Overenthusiastic Puncher."
Rick waved. "Sup."
"You understand that by creating a new Sequence, you've disrupted seven cosmic contracts, five prophecies, and one long-running anime subplot?"
Rick shrugged. "Not my fault the system wasn't ready for high-energy dumbassery."
Doctor Strange pinched the bridge of his nose. "Rick, you've broken more reality rules than Dormammu and Loki combined."
Rick gave him a thumbs-up. "Thanks, Doc."
Klein stood.
"We require proof your Sequence deserves to exist."
He snapped his fingers.
A sun rose behind them.
A living star, radiating hostile will and divine pressure.
"This," Klein said, "is the trial."
The Star That Judges
The Star wasn't just hot.
It had opinions.
It roared like a courtroom and spoke in flaming paragraphs.
"You are anomaly," it thundered. "Justification required. Engage trial combat or be erased."
Rick cracked his neck.
"You wanna go, Sunbutt?"
The star blinked.
Rick punched it.
Trial Combat: Rick vs The Star
The battlefield was made of plasma, gravity, and ancient regrets.
The Star hurled flares that sang of truth.
Rick countered with a grappling hook made from pure sarcasm.
The Star summoned constellations that tried to erase Rick's identity.
Rick responded by headbutting his own name back into existence.
CRACK—FWOOM—ZAAAAP.
Rick dodged solar blasts by cartwheeling into alternate dimensions.
He suplexed a comet.
He shouted, "SEQUENCE EIGHT, BABY!" and threw a divine dodgeball infused with chaos, caffeine, and 11% cinnamon roll energy.
It hit the Star.
The star… flickered.
And laughed.
Aftermath
The Star retracted, smaller now.
It glowed with something almost like respect.
"Accepted. Sequence stands."
Klein nodded.
The Council murmured their judgments.
Mother Cataclysm gave Rick a new scarf made of universe silk.
Stan muttered, "This kid's a menace. I love it."
Later, floating home
Rick soared through the cosmos on a hoverboard shaped like a dragon.
Izra pinged him.
"You're still alive?"
"Yup," Rick grinned.
"And the Council didn't erase you?"
"Nope. I punched the sun."
"…of course you did."
He looked at his card again.
The Fool laughed.
The Sequence pulsed.
And far below, destiny shifted like a coin in the dark.