Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 383: Uncovering The Truth (Part 8)

The tunnel walls pulsed slightly as if breathing—wet and slow.

Don kept to the rear, boots crunching through semi-coagulated slop, his breath tight behind the mask of the neck gaiter he had pulled up to cover half of his face.

The tunnel stank—meat and moss and old blood. His tactical gear was slick with it already, black fabric smeared with streaks of green rot.

Didn't matter. Ahead, Charles and Agent Hathaway pushed on, steps fast but controlled. The hallways were too narrow to maneuver well, but that was the point.

They'd been running for several minutes—twisting through descent after descent, split after split—Don guiding by feel more than sight. His senses didn't work right in here. Everything echoed. Everything squirmed.

He just followed the noise—and avoided it.

Where the snarling came from one direction, they took the other.

But the snarls had started catching up.

Too many.

Too close.

Still, the tunnels only allowed for narrow pursuit. One at a time, maybe two. That was their only grace.

Unfortunately for the creatures, that was enough.

[System Active: Tactical Advance (Silver)]

Battlefield Scan: 24 seconds remaining. Weak points and escape routes highlighted.]

Don's vision flickered with outlines—limbs, spines, arteries. The closest creature lunged, jaw wide. He caught it mid-leap.

**CRNK—SPLRT—**

His fist crushed cartilage and splintered bone. The next followed, crawling across the wall, claws scrabbling.

Don ducked low, slammed upward into its gut. Something inside gave way—shlk—and it folded around his knuckles like wet canvas.

He barely broke stride.

"Keep moving," he instructed, voice distorted through the mask.

Charles gave a quick glance back—confirmation, not concern—then kept going. Hathaway was already sweeping corners ahead, sidearm raised, pace tight.

Then—

"I see light!" Hathaway shouted, voice echoing back. "I think it's a way out!"

Don looked up.

There it was—barely visible past a curtain of vines, but unmistakable.

Filtered moonlight.

Charles surged forward, breath harsh through his mask too. Don followed. His boots felt heavier, but his stride didn't slow.

They reached the vines in seconds. Brittle strands curled in the stagnant air, their color faded. What should've been green looked more like dry algae left to rot.

Hathaway halted. Didn't rush it. The tunnel narrowed too cleanly, the light too perfectly placed.

Charles stopped just behind him. Then Don, who immediately stepped forward.

"This isn't the exit," he said, already moving past the others.

He pushed the vines aside—crshhh—crinkle—and stepped through.

The cavern beyond was wide. Silent. Dead.

Dry vines lay across the ground like tangled roots, their ends curling as if shriveled mid-scream. The once-living pods, bulbous and organic, were now hollowed out—blackened husks split down the middle, contents long removed.

Bodies lay near them. Exposed. Broken.

Most of the flesh was gone, replaced with burrow-holes like insect nests. The vines had fed, tunneling through the skin and muscle like worms with a map. Everything left behind was riddled and pale.

Charles stepped forward slowly, glancing around.

Hathaway exhaled hard. "Jesus…"

Don didn't respond. He was staring at the center of the chamber.

The pool was gone.

What remained was a massive boulder, dropped dead-center, right where the mix of blood and vines had once stirred. It was covered in vein-like cracks, as if it had impacted from above.

And overhead, where the ceiling should've been solid, there was a hole—wide, irregular, long, the edges splintered outward. A path.

Moonlight streamed down through it, washing the rock in silver.

He could see sky.

Real sky.

Don crouched by one of the husks near the edge. Pressed two fingers to what was once a shoulder—thnk-thnk. Hollow.

"These people weren't just killed," he said, rising again. "They were… processed."

Charles said nothing. His gaze drifted to the hole in the ceiling.

The cavern had space. Too much of it.

That was the first thing Charles noticed once his eyes adjusted—how the openness didn't bring comfort, just more angles for things to crawl from.

The moonlight offered only enough light to show the worst parts. The desiccated corpses. The withered vines. The boulder squatting in the center like a plugged wound.

There was no sound but their own breathing.

And the smell.

Not just decay. It was sweet in the wrong way. Like something meant to attract, not repel. Like fruit left too long in the sun.

Charles took another step forward, eyes scanning the dried-out pods.

"Are these people… part of the team that didn't return?" he asked.

His voice echoed slightly. Nothing answered.

Agent Hathaway didn't even bother moving closer. He stood a little ways back, posture tense beneath the muck-stained weight of his attire.

Slime, blood, dust—his gear had seen better days. His helmet was scratched and smeared with something green that had the texture of congealed soup.

He looked tired of this place. Who could blame him?

"I don't know," he said flatly. "Let's get out of here first and have a proper team retrieve the bodies."

He wiped his visor with one gloved hand, but the smear only got worse.

"Looks like whatever was here is gone now. Unless you kids aren't telling me something."

He eyed them both. Neither replied.

"Doesn't matter. Silverwing, think you can go through that hole and get help? We shouldn't be too far from the main camp."

Charles was about to respond, wings flexing slightly beneath the back of his outfit, when he saw Don.

Still.

Staring.

Don's focus was locked on the boulder in the middle of the room. Not with awe or confusion. Just… focus. Like he'd heard something no one else had.

Charles frowned. "What's wrong? Something off about that chunk of rock?"

Hathaway didn't like the question. His fingers twitched around his sidearm, the motion subtle but telling. He didn't want to be here. None of them did. But if Don saw something—

The silence made it worse. Even the tunnel behind them felt like it was holding its breath.

Don stepped forward once. Then said it.

"You can come out. We know you're there."

It hit like a dropped pin in a mausoleum.

Hathaway's gut turned. Just slightly. Just enough to make him regret eating that protein bar three hours ago.

"…What's there?" he muttered.

Charles's wings twitched with a whrr of kinetic response. Ready.

No movement. No sudden lunges. Just stillness.

Then—hah.

A laugh.

It came from behind the boulder. Rich. Old. Amused. Real. It should've sounded grandfatherly.

It didn't.

It echoed too long. Twisted the acoustics of the cavern into something smaller. Closer.

A figure walked around the side of the boulder, hands behind his back like he was out for a morning stroll.

Father John.

The robes were dirtied, the hems frayed with dried fluids that didn't belong on any priest's garment. His smile carried warmth, but only if you didn't look too hard at the eyes. They didn't match.

"My, my," he said, voice smooth. "You're quite astute."

He glanced at Don, head tilted slightly.

"How I would love to make you my new vessel. Don Bright. I didn't think I would see you so soon. How nice. How very nice, yes."

His eyes slid next to Charles.

"And this—the famed Silverwing. So many choices."

Then, finally, Hathaway.

His smile didn't change. Just… focused.

"Him, I can use. To birth more children for Mother."

Hathaway stiffened like he'd been slapped. His expression barely held together behind the visor.

He lifted his gun, voice flat. "No thanks, freak. You're under arrest. Hands behind your head before I blow it off."

Father John's smile widened.

Slowly.

Too wide.

His voice shifted, warmth bleeding into static.

"You ungrateful sack of flesh," he said. "You should be honored to birth Mother's children."

Then he paused.

Just long enough.

"But so be it."

The smile didn't go away.

"I'm sure you'll all be a bit more willing once I break a few of your pathetic limbs."

And then—

**RMMMMMMMMMBLL**

The ground beneath them shuddered.

Dust rained from the cavern ceiling. Loose bits of stone rattled across the floor. The boulder didn't move—but everything else seemed to react to it.

Don squared his stance.

Charles's wings fully extended, ready.

Hathaway didn't wait. His finger hovered over the trigger.

If the cavern had felt dead before.

Now?

It felt like it was waking up.

-----

Author's Note:

Sorry for the delay. Still deep in the outline trenches for this volume—trying to link everything cleanly without tripping into a plot hole the size of Barclay's ego. Moments like this really make me question why I decided to build something this damn ambitious. But here we are. Here's hoping the care pays off in the long run… even if the Webnovel Algorithm throws the book into the shadow realm for not pumping out chapters like a machine.

Appreciate those of you still sticking around. You're the real anomaly.