Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 329: Crisis In Santos City (Part 1)

The moment stretched thin, silent save for the flickering lights and the distant echoes of chaos throughout the stadium.

Don stood atop the mound of broken bodies and debris, sweat trickling down his face, mixing with the dust and blood clinging to his skin. Charles hovered just behind him, his silver wings spread wide, their metallic sheen dulled by streaks of red.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Then—the horde charged.

**RRAAAGGHHH!**

Hundreds of them, surging forward like a tidal wave of bodies, weapons glinting under the ruined lighting. There was no hesitation, no fear—just a mindless, unrelenting drive to kill.

Don exhaled sharply. 'Shit.'

No time to think. He launched himself off the mound, hurling his body into the charging mass.

Still airborne, Don clasped his hands together and came down with force. **BOOM!**

The impact split the ground like a small earthquake, but before the shockwave could fully disperse, he released all the stored energy in his body at once.

**KA-THOOOM!**

The force detonated outward like a bomb, sending a massive wave of attackers flying in all directions. Some were launched high into the air, their bodies twisting unnaturally before slamming into walls, snapping like brittle sticks.

Others were outright obliterated—limbs torn from torsos, skulls caved in, chunks of debris shooting through flesh like shrapnel. The floor beneath them cracked, sending deep fractures through the marble, entire sections collapsing under the sheer force.

Those further back were knocked clean off their feet, skidding across the ground, while those at the farthest edges merely staggered before regaining their footing. But they didn't stop. They never stopped.

Above, Charles instinctively shielded his eyes against the explosion of dust and carnage. He had seen Don fight before—seen him tear through the evaluation droid like it was made of paper. But this… this was different. The scale of destruction. The raw, brutal efficiency.

For the briefest of moments, Charles found himself impressed.

But he didn't linger in his thoughts. His enemies weren't dead yet.

Without a word, he dived into the chaos, using the momentary disarray to strike. He soared past the bodies still in the air, his wings flashing like blades of silver light. **FWIP—FWIP!**

Two heads flew clean off, spinning like grotesque pinwheels before raining blood on the carnage below. Another man, mid-fall, barely had time to blink before Charles slashed through his torso with a single, well-placed wingbeat.

By the time Charles landed gracefully atop a broken pillar, bodies hit the ground like discarded puppets.

But below him, Don was still in the thick of it.

A group rushed Don head-on.

Five from the front. Five from the sides. Four from behind.

It was a coordinated assault—too synchronized, too methodical for a mindless horde. But Don didn't flinch.

The first attacker lunged with a jagged metal pipe—Don sidestepped, grabbed the pipe mid-swing, and crushed it with his bare hand before driving his fist into the attacker's ribs. The impact sent the man flying backward, crashing into three more with bone-snapping force.

A blade flashed from the right. Don tilted his head just enough for it to miss his throat before catching the attacker's wrist. **CRACK!** The man screamed as Don twisted his arm in an unnatural direction before hurling him into another charging attacker.

From behind, another came swinging with a rusted axe—Don didn't even turn. Instead, he threw an elbow backward, hitting the attacker's jaw with such force that the man's skull whipped sideways before he collapsed, unconscious before he hit the floor.

More came. Too many.

Don shifted, crossing his arms to block two simultaneous strikes—one from the front, one from the left. His arms absorbed the blows, but rather than just taking the hits, he let the force sink into his muscles, storing the kinetic energy.

Another attack came from the right. Don bent low, letting the weapon graze past his shoulder before using the stored energy to lash out with an uppercut.

**BOOM!**

The attacker's head snapped back with a sickening crack, his body lifting off the ground before slamming down like a broken doll.

From above, Charles had seen enough.

He descended like a missile, wings folded tight before spreading at the last second. The gust of wind that followed sent a good portion of Don's attackers reeling backward.

Don wasted no time.

He punched the ground again, this time releasing all of his stored energy in one devastating blast.

**KA-THRAAAM!**

The shockwave rippled outward, sending a wave of carnage through the battlefield.

Attackers exploded backward, their bodies hitting walls, furniture, or simply crashing into each other. The sheer force crushed bones, shattered limbs, and sent chunks of debris slicing through flesh like blades.

Even Charles, despite expecting it, felt himself being pushed back mid-air. He gritted his teeth, fully extending his wings to stop his momentum, but even then, he had to strain to hold his position.

By the time the dust settled, the floor had been utterly wrecked.

Entire sections had caved in. What was once a grand, polished ground floor now looked like a battlefield straight out of a warzone. The carnage was indisputable.

Less than fifty attackers remained.

They still stood, still breathing—but the madness in their eyes had faltered, flickering between unwavering zeal and something else.

Fear.

Charles landed lightly next to Don, dusting off the minor scrapes on his body. He gave Don a sidelong glance, a hint of amusement flickering in his usually composed expression.

"Effective," Charles remarked.

Don rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly. "Yeah."

Neither of them noticed the security camera hanging loose in the corner.

———

SHQ Headquarters – Command Center

The streets of Santos City roared with the sound of mobilization.

Armored vehicles sped out of SHQ's underground motor pool, sirens blaring as they tore down the roads, weaving through traffic urgently.

Helicopters lifted off from rooftop pads in coordinated waves, their rotors chopping through the night sky as they carried teams of heroes and elite response units toward the chaos below.

Inside the SHQ Command Center, the tension was thick.

The vast, high-tech room was full of activity. Rows of operatives sat at their stations, fingers flying across holographic keyboards, their screens displaying constantly shifting data.

Some were locked in frantic phone calls, voices sharp and urgent. Others simply stood frozen, eyes glued to the colossal array of monitors dominating the front wall.

The largest screen displayed an aerial view of the city—a grim mosaic of destruction. Plumes of black smoke curled into the sky from multiple locations. Fires flickered across several districts, casting an ominous glow over the urban sites.

To the right, another screen showed Don and Charles's battle in real time. Their brutal efficiency, their unwavering dominance over the mindless horde—it was a sight both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling.

Further monitors painted an even grislier picture. Civilians screaming, running for their lives and Green Thorns cutting them down with twisted weapons. Security forces outgunned, overwhelmed, desperate.

At the forefront of the room, Director Henry Graham stood in silent contemplation.

His sharp blue eyes remained fixed on the carnage, his expression unreadable. One hand rested on his cane, but the subtle tension in his grip showed the restrained anger within.

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Behind him, Deputy Director Harold Barclay snapped his phone shut, turning briskly to address him.

"The commissioner says he's already dispatched all departments and requested military aid," Barclay reported, his voice level but edged with skepticism. "Do you really think that will be necessary, though? I mean, if two children can handle so many, then I'm sure the heroes we've dispatched will be more than enough to deal with the situation."

Before Graham could answer, a scoff rang from behind.

"You sound like a fool, Deputy Director."

The comment turned several heads.

Standing by the entrance was none other than Red Star. She was a striking figure to behold—intimidating yet undeniably alluring.

Her hero suit clung tightly to her athletic form. The glowing blue star emblazoned below her chest pulsed faintly, mirroring the faint crimson gleam in her piercing eyes.

Barclay's expression immediately darkened. He turned fully, scowling. "You're not authorized to be in here."

Red Star barely spared him a glance. Her gaze remained locked on the screen displaying Don and Charles's fight.

"I'm not here to stay," she replied flatly. "I simply came to inform Director Graham that I will be stepping out."

Barclay's scowl deepened. "It'd be wise for you to remember that you're not licensed to operate here. Unless we give you permission, you can't—"

"I know," Red Star cut him off, her voice sharp but dispassionate. "You and your rules."

She finally turned her gaze toward him, cool and unbothered. "I said I'm stepping out, not stepping out to fight. You can't stop me from moving around, Deputy. Me telling you I'm leaving is simply courtesy."

With that, she pivoted and strode out, her presence lingering even as she vanished from sight.

Barclay's fists clenched at his sides. His lips pressed into a thin, furious line as he turned back toward Graham. "Are you going to allow her to do this?" he demanded.

Graham didn't look away from the screens. His grip on the cane remained firm.

"She's right," he said simply. "If she's not going out with the intent to fight, then you can't stop her. You're free to follow her, though, if you're that concerned."

Barclay's jaw twitched. He muttered a curt, "Never mind," but his frustration was evident.

Just then, his phone buzzed again.

A new message.

Barclay glanced down, unlocking the screen.

The chat with Victoria.

His last message: "The boy is occupied elsewhere. It's time to act."

Her reply came in just as he opened it.

"They're on their way now."

Barclay's grip on the phone tightened slightly.

For the first time that night, a smirk ghosted across his lips.