Rick stood amidst the chaos, his body bruised, breath ragged, and eyes burning with madness. The city was no longer recognizable — broken glass, burning cars, and twisted metal littered the streets. The stench of smoke and charred flesh hung heavy in the air. But even through the chaos, the only thing that mattered now were the monsters before him. Nineteen black beings and one massive lizard.
Each of those abominations radiated an aura that clawed at his instincts, screaming one truth — death. Their bodies were shaped like men but wrong, stretched in proportions that mocked humanity. Eyes like liquid ink, limbs that rippled with shifting muscle, and mouths that never quite closed, as if even silence disgusted them. They had come from the portal that split the sky minutes ago, and ever since, the city had drowned in screams.
Rick swallowed hard. His hands trembled, not from fear — that emotion had died a long time ago — but from the surge of energy that burned through his veins. The Quill pulsed faintly in his grip, its dark surface throbbing with strange life. He could feel it calling him, whispering that familiar hunger, the same whisper that had haunted him since the day he first touched it.
"Rick!"
The voice came from above. Mark stood on the roof of a nearby building, panic twisting his face. "Hang on, I'm coming down!"
But before Mark could move, his wristwatch buzzed. He frowned and answered.
"Mark! Mark, we need help! Monsters — black things — they're invading the city!"
"Calm down, Kane," Mark said, trying to steady his voice, though his gut already knew what this was about.
"Calm down? Are you out of your mind?! There are nineteen of those black things and a huge lizard — they're massacring everyone! Half the city's gone! We can't hold them! We need your help now!"
Mark's eyes darted from the fire in the streets to his son, who stood defiant before those monsters. His throat tightened. Millions of lives… or his only child. His hand shook around the watch. He wanted to scream, to defy logic, but reason had claws.
"I'm sorry, Rick," he whispered under his breath. "I'm so damn sorry."
Then louder: "Where are you exactly?"
The voice on the other end crackled in terror. "Everywhere! They're everywhere!"
Meanwhile, Rick just stood there, surrounded by inhuman shadows. The air vibrated, tension so thick it could be cut. The abominations' leader stepped forward, its movement smooth and terrible, like smoke pretending to be flesh.
"Rick Morris," it said in a voice that scraped the air, neither male nor female, both calm and absolute. "We are the race known as Abomination. And unfortunately for your kind… we have chosen this planet."
Rick's lips curved into a slow grin. "Chosen, huh?" he said, raising the Quill. "Then let's see who dies today."
His voice wasn't human anymore — it carried that bloodlust that made even monsters hesitate. And in that moment, everyone watching knew one thing: the Quill had finally claimed him.
He moved.
No warning, no hesitation. One heartbeat he was still, the next he was a cannonball of raw violence. His body crashed into the nearest abomination, Quill slicing through the air with a shriek. The blade hit, tearing through black flesh that hissed and smoked. The creature's shriek rattled windows — but even as Rick landed the blow, another abomination's fist slammed into his ribs, sending him flying. He coughed blood, spat, then grinned.
Pain didn't slow him down — it fueled him.
That became the rhythm. He lunged, slashed, got hit, got up, and lunged again. Over and over, an endless, bloody cycle. His body screamed, but his spirit roared louder. Each wound only made him fiercer; each drop of blood, his or theirs, made his strikes sharper.
He wasn't fighting like a man anymore. He was something else entirely — a beast wrapped in human skin, moving with a reckless grace that belonged to the insane.
The abominations hit harder, faster, but it didn't matter. Their wounds healed, but Rick's madness grew. Somewhere deep inside, the Quill fed on his fury, drinking every ounce of hate, every drop of blood, every broken bone — and returning it tenfold.
Above them, thunder rolled.
On another street, Mark's men were scrambling for positions. The commander barked into his communicator, "We can't lose the city! Redirect units to sector five! I don't care if you have to drag the tanks there!" His voice cracked with desperation. He couldn't allow millions to die — not if there was still a chance to fight back.
But deep down, even he knew the truth: their fate was already sealed in blood.
Back at the center, Rick clashed again.
Boom!
The ground shattered beneath his feet as he sent one of the abominations flying through a wall. "Finally!" he laughed through bloody teeth. "A decent hit!"
The creature groaned, clutching its side. "Mother… gucker!" it hissed, mangling the word.
Rick burst out laughing — wild, unhinged laughter that echoed through the ruined street. "Gucker?! Hahaha! Guess I hit you harder than I thought!"
The abominations closed in, fury turning them rabid. They attacked in unison — claws, fists, and shadow tendrils slashing from all sides. Rick blocked what he could, took what he couldn't, and every hit only dragged another laugh out of him. His clothes were torn, blood soaking his chest, but his grin never faltered.
The lizard in the back roared, shaking nearby buildings. Dust rained down. Rick turned toward it, eyes narrowing. That roar lit something inside him — a challenge.
"Your turn, ugly," he muttered.
He planted his feet, raised his hands, and called upon the Quill's power. The sky responded. Clouds twisted, merging into a swirling vortex of black and gray. Thunder rumbled again, louder this time, like the heavens themselves were waiting for his command.
"Stop him!" one of the abominations screamed.
They charged, but as they neared, a dome of translucent energy expanded from Rick's position. They punched, kicked, and clawed, but the barrier didn't move — instead, pain lanced through their limbs, as if they were striking solid titanium. Rick didn't even look at them. His focus was absolute, his eyes reflecting lightning.
The Quill's veins glowed white-hot. The dome trembled. And then —
Crack!
The first bolt fell.
Rain followed — cold, violent, punishing. Lightning danced across the sky, slamming into the ground with blinding fury. The abominations shrieked as the electricity ripped through them. Their shadows burned away, their flesh smoked, their bodies convulsed. Even monsters, it seemed, feared nature's wrath.
"Take cover!" one screamed.
Rick didn't stop. His voice was strained, his veins bulging from the effort, but he didn't stop. "You wanted power," he hissed to himself. "Here. Take it!"
Boom!
A massive bolt struck his dome, the shockwave rippling across the city. Cracks appeared across the barrier, spiderwebbing outward. He pressed his palm against the Quill, pouring every last ounce of strength into it. The cracks sealed, only to reappear seconds later. He was reaching his limit.
The Quill's running out of power… I can't hold this much longer, he thought.
But he refused to yield.
More lightning fell, each bolt screaming like the fury of gods. More abominations died, their bodies vaporized or turned to charred husks. And when the last three realized they couldn't win, they snarled, opened a dark portal, and vanished — but not before one turned back and said:
"Rick Morris… we will remember you."
Then they were gone.
Rick stood there, drenched, trembling, and smiling faintly. The dome flickered once and disappeared. He dropped to his knees, staring at the steaming street. For a long while, he just stayed there, letting the rain wash away the blood and smoke. Then he rose and walked away without a word.
All around him, the city was silent. Survivors peeked out from shattered windows and broken shelters. They saw the man who had stood alone against monsters and lived. They saw him, and they whispered.
Two weeks later.
"All hail Rick Morris!" the crowd chanted. "All hail Rick Morris!"
Banners were painted with his name, altars built in his image. The city that once burned now worshipped its savior.
But not everyone shared their faith.
"Who is this Rick Morris guy anyway?" one man asked aloud.
The entire crowd froze. Every face turned toward him.
"What?" he asked, nervous.
The silence stretched, then one of the zealots stepped forward, eyes wide with fanatical devotion. "How dare you speak our Lord's name in vain?"
"Wait, I just asked—"
"Execute him immediately."
The man barely had time to scream before they dragged him away. Blood splattered across the cracked pavement, and the crowd went back to chanting like nothing happened.
This was the same city Rick had saved — now twisted by reverence into madness. His survival had birthed a cult, and every day their numbers grew.
But other cities hadn't been so lucky. Those without a Rick Morris fell to ruin, swallowed by black flame and monsters. The death toll was beyond comprehension.
Inside a fortified bunker, Mark slammed his hand on the table. "We have to kill him," an officer said. "He's tainted now. The Quill corrupted him."
"Shut up!" Mark roared, eyes blazing. "He's my son!"
"No need to shout, Mark," came a calm, smooth voice.
Mark turned and saw him — Elvis. One of the global leaders of the resistance. He entered the room with casual confidence, the kind that came from being untouchable.
"I didn't know you were coming," Mark muttered.
"I didn't plan to," Elvis replied, smiling faintly. "But this situation required my attention." He paused, studying Mark's trembling fists. "As for your son… he's powerful, yes. But also dangerous. He's created a cult, and he's tainted by that weapon. We can't afford to fight two enemies at once."
Mark's face went pale. "Don't you dare—"
"Sorry, Mark," Elvis said quietly. "But this isn't your decision." He reached into his coat, pulled out a poster, and dropped it on the table.
The letters printed across it were bold and cold:RICK MORRIS:WANTED.