My Borderline Supervillain-Slash-Hero System-Chapter 80: On the Eve of the Tournament (Part 3)

"Do you wanna be friends with me?" Henry asked sweetly.

The words echoed in the heavy silence.

But that smile... that voice...

It wasn’t something anyone would want to hear—not even in their worst nightmares.

It was wrong.

Not loud.

Not angry.

Just unnaturally calm.

The kind of calm that sat next to chaos and whispered to it before the storm hit.

The temperature in the room seemed to dip. Instinctively, several of the youths straightened, hands creeping toward their weapons, breath caught in their throats.

Even Maeve and Bicky, still mid-standoff, froze.

They could all feel it—something was very, very wrong with Henry Bloodgale.

But Bicky, being Bicky, took the moment to sneak in a quick kick.

Maeve, ready as ever, deflected and retaliated. The clash resumed, weapons ringing out as Bicky hurled his usual stream of profanity to provoke her.

Soon, the group’s attention shifted back to the duel.

Henry simply shrugged.

And then, like wind, he moved.

He appeared behind Bicky in an instant and gently tapped the back of his head.

Bicky, mid-jab with his javelin, flinched at the contact. He instinctively spun around and slashed the weapon backward.

But there was no one there.

Yet they all saw it—Henry had touched him.

Taking advantage of Bicky’s moment of confusion, Maeve struck again. But before her blade could land, Henry reappeared—this time behind her—and tapped the top of her head.

Maeve froze, turned swiftly—nothing.

The two fighters looked around, scanning the shadows with growing unease. They had sensed something, but not clearly. Not enough.

Only the others saw the truth—Henry was playing with them like a ghost, a phantom flickering through space.

"Looking for me?" a voice whispered behind Bicky again. A hand tapped him once more. "I’m right here."

Bicky spun again—no one.

Maeve experienced the same haunting touch on her shoulder, only to find empty air behind her.

"Who the hell are you?!" Bicky snarled. "Why don’t you come out and face me, you little bastard?!"

That’s when the laughter returned.

Wild, grating, unnatural—the kind that made your skin crawl.

Most of them instinctively raised their hands to block out the noise. But it was no use. It pierced.

Then, that same soft question echoed again:

"Do you wanna be friends with me?"

It was the same twisted sweetness. Repeated. Again.

And again.

"That son of a bitch is sick!" Bicky muttered, and everyone silently agreed.

Henry’s body flickered like static. He zipped across the room, moving between them like a gust of mischief, tapping the backs of heads, shoulders, arms—laughing the entire time. Now he was doing to everyone.

What should’ve been a harmless gesture—a simple touch—felt anything but.

Everyone tensed. His actions, though playful in appearance, were deeply unsettling. There was something off—not just his speed, but his intent.

They knew now—he was a speedster.

And something inside his head was definitely not screwed on right.

But no one dared to speak up. Not even the loudmouths.

Except Bicky.

As Henry darted around the room, laughing, tapping shoulders, and repeating the same haunting question—

"Do you wanna be friends with me?"—

Bicky finally snapped.

"Hmph! This kid is a psycho!"

The word struck the air like a hammer.

Everything stopped.

Henry froze mid-step.

Silence consumed the room.

And then... the temperature dropped again.

A mist of grayish aura seeped from Henry Bloodgale’s body, curling through the air like toxic smoke.

It thickened, heavy with killing intent. The very space around them seemed to warp and collapse.

The air turned quasi-solid, pressing against their lungs—choking them.

Everyone began to suffocate.

And they were right to feel afraid.

Henry’s voice rasped through the pressure, hoarse and feline.

"Who said that?"

Nobody could answer. Not because they didn’t want to—they physically couldn’t. Their throats were locked tight under the suffocating weight of his aura.

Henry moved. Swift as a phantom, drifting from one person to another.

"Was it you?" he asked, pointing at a boy frozen in terror.

"No," he answered himself in the same breath.

Then to another. "You? You...?"

He kept pointing, asking, answering himself with increasing speed, like a broken machine.

Then he paused.

A dazed look spread across his face.

He rubbed his temple and mumbled, "I definitely heard someone call me that... No, no. I’m just hearing things again..."

Meanwhile, the others were not faring well. Their minds were assaulted.

The aura of death overwhelmed everyone.

Visions of horror—shadowy, clawed hands dragging them down into a realm of carnage. They saw thousands of warriors being slaughtered, their screams echoing like an eternal loop.

Blood. Gore. Butchery beyond sanity.

They convulsed, tried to scream, to vomit—but nothing came out.

And then... they all turned their eyes to one person.

Bicky.

Bicky, now realizing everyone was staring at him, glared back like a cornered animal.

’What? You spineless assholes!’ his eyes screamed.

Their looks said something else entirely—

’You loudmouthed fool. The moment we’re free, we’re sewing your lips shut.’

Henry was still in his own world, scratching his head like a confused child.

"Those bad people... they used to call me psycho all the time," he murmured.

"They said it again and again, until... I started hearing it even when it wasn’t said. I guess..."

He looked up, his head tilting innocently.

"...I must have misheard, right?"

He turned to them, eyes wide and searching. "Am I mishearing things?"

Desperate for the pressure to end, everyone frantically nodded—all but Bicky, who looked like he’d rather die than submit.

Henry’s eerie grin returned.

The aura lifted.

Everyone collapsed, gasping, coughing, vomiting. Their limbs shook, their hearts pounded like war drums.

But when they looked back at Henry, they all wore the same mask—a strained, forced smile.

Henry grinned back, delighted.

"Do you wanna be friends with me?" he asked again, his voice carrying that same cat-like rasp.

No one dared answer. But they all smiled. Even through tears.

Then—Bicky stood.

Still trembling, but full of pride, he pointed at Henry and shouted, "This psy—!"

But he didn’t finish.

The other eight pounced.

One covered his mouth.

Two grabbed his arms.

Three pinned his legs.

The rest held him down with all their might.

Bicky thrashed in protest, glaring at all of them like a betrayed martyr. He mumbled curses from behind the hand gagging him.

Then he glared at Henry—his eyes full of defiance and rage.

Henry frowned.

"I don’t like your eyes," he said simply.

Maeve, already behind Bicky, didn’t hesitate.

"Someone cover this bastard’s eyes," she hissed.

Someone did.

Then she cracked her knuckles and said sweetly, "Time to teach this foul-mouthed idiot some manners."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

They shifted slightly to give her room.

And Maeve unleashed fury—kicking him hard in the backside again... and again... and again.

Bicky groaned in pain, muffled and helpless.

But Henry?

Henry laughed.

Clapping like a child, he beamed, eyes glowing with joy, as though he were witnessing the most wholesome moment in the world.

"They’re all just being playful," he whispered. "Such good friends."

BANG!

The motel door was kicked open.

A gust of wind followed the entrance of a mature, curvaceous woman radiating charm and danger in equal measure.

Everyone in the room froze instantly.

Even Bicky, who had been seething moments earlier, swallowed down the curse that sat on his tongue.

The woman wore a crimson skirt that stopped just above her knees, matching red high heels, a crisp white blouse, and a bamboo hat tilted stylishly over her sunglasses. In her arms purred a white cat.

There was no mistaking her.

Dean Kora Veyne.

Also known as The Dragon Lady.

A dean of the Academy. A bastard child of a Super Family. A rumored Super-hero with a shadowy past.

And absolutely not someone to cross.

Her sharp eyes scanned the wrecked room—holes in the walls, shattered furniture, bloodied weapons.

She smiled. A terrifying, measured smile.

One by one, she made eye contact with each youth in the room. One by one, they lowered their heads.

Except for Henry.

Henry stared straight at her, grinning.

"Do you wanna be friends with me?" he asked sweetly.

Kora raised an eyebrow. "So it’s all your doing?"

Henry tilted his head. "Do you wanna be friends with me?" he repeated, with the same smile.

She snorted. "Look in a mirror, kid. Who would befriend a psycho like you?"

The room erupted.

"No! Don’t say that—!!" someone screamed.

Too late.

Kora turned toward them, expression sharp. "So it was your doing. Psycho."

She said it again.

Henry’s eyes twitched. A gray mist burst from his body like a wave of death.

The air turned suffocating again.

Kora’s lips curled. "Tch."

She moved.

Crack!

A slap cracked across Henry’s face, sending him flying through what remained of the wall. The suffocating aura vanished like smoke blown away by wind.

Henry groaned, trying to rise—

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Kora was already there, kicking him hard in the gut over and over again.

"I spend billions of beast cores raising you," she snarled. "And you dare bare your fangs at me?"

In the back, Bicky couldn’t help it—he let out a pleased snicker.

Kora turned sharply. Without warning, she slapped Bicky across the face, sending him flying too.

"I know you too well, Bicky the Bastard," she said coldly. "I bet you provoked the psycho."

All heads nodded. Even Maeve shifted a step to the right and ducked behind someone.

Bicky scrambled up, pointing at Maeve—"It was her! She—!"

"Zip it." Kora’s voice cracked like thunder. "One more word and I’ll beat you through the night."

Everyone fell quiet.

Henry crawled out of the debris, face bloody and hair messy, but smiling.

He stood in line, shoulders straight.

"Good boy," Kora muttered, brushing dust off his clothes like a mother scolding her unruly child.

Henry beamed.

"Don’t smile at me," she snapped, deadpan.

She turned and sat on the only surviving chair in the room, crossing her legs elegantly. The white cat hopped onto her lap.

Then, her tone shifted to something weighty.

"You’ve all done well all these years. But now... it’s time."

Her gaze swept over them.

"Time to show the world who we are—The Bastard Union. This tournament will be our debut. Make me proud."

The air shifted.

Even Henry stood straighter.

Each youth slammed a fist against their chest.

"Yes, Dean Kora!"

"Good. Dismissed."

They didn’t need to be told twice. One after another, they scrambled out of the motel.

Only Henry remained.

Kora watched him. "Boy, I’ve got a mission for you."

She handed him a photograph and a sealed letter.

"The details are on the back. He’s at Hotel Sunflower, Room 245. Put this on his table. No one should know you were ever there."

Henry turned the photo and read the name aloud.

"Zane Carter... Hotel Sunflower... Room 245..." His eyes widened. "I know him! He’s all over the Internet!"

He looked up, hopeful. "Can I make friends with him?"

Kora slapped her forehead, groaning.

"Boy. I said no friends. Just drop the letter and get out. Stealth only. Got it?"

Henry nodded eagerly. "Got it!"

Still grinning that eerie grin, he turned and vanished through the broken wall.

Kora watched him go and sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Argh... That boy’s going to be the death of me."

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