Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 327: A Night To Remember (Part 9)

Don stood over the bodies, his expression impassive despite the unease running through his mind. The blood pooling beneath them followed an eerily deliberate flow, curling in unnatural patterns that shouldn't have been possible.

Then there was the green. A sickly, viscous liquid intermingled with the blood, seeping from their wounds like something that had no place inside a human body.

His gaze flicked to Charles, who observed the scene with an almost clinical detachment. No shock, no hesitation. If anything, he looked like someone confirming an expectation rather than discovering something new.

Don took another glance at the blood and exhaled through his nose before saying, "I'm not sure if you're aware, but I was caught up in a case relating to Green Thorns. The local church on the east side. I won't go into detail, but the people there—if you can even call them that—showed the same signs."

Charles raised a brow, descending the steps until he stood beside Don. He wasn't in a rush, his movements measured. "I was made aware," he said, voice calm. "But it became a federal case before I could gain more information."

Don studied him for a moment. Either Charles was holding something back, or his connections weren't as deep as he let on. Hard to say which.

For now, he just nodded. "They tried to keep it under wraps, but after today, I doubt they'll be able to do so."

Charles hummed in agreement, shifting his focus back to the mess at their feet. His gaze lingered on the congealing red and green, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. "They won't. Let's keep going."

Don followed as they moved further down the staircase, his mind trailing elsewhere. 'As far as I know, there's no public record of Charles killing anyone as Silverwing. But from the looks of it, this isn't his first time. So why be okay with making it public now?'

It didn't add up. A man like Charles didn't make careless moves. If he was fine with shedding blood where the world could see, there had to be a reason. Don just couldn't figure out what.

Still, if Charles had no problem with it, maybe he shouldn't either. That hesitation—the small sliver of concern about the public's reaction to Don killing instead of just Silverwing—felt less important now. If there was a price to pay, he'd accept it.

A sudden series of distant booms rattled the air. Don's step didn't falter, but he felt the vibrations in his bones. Unlike the earlier explosions, these didn't shake the building.

Charles tilted his head slightly, listening. "That sounded further out."

Don nodded. "Seems other places are getting hit too."

Charles narrowed his gaze, his mind clearly shifting gears. "That means it may take longer for help to arrive here. We should hurry."

Don gave a slight nod, and the two continued down.

The next floor loomed ahead. Even before reaching the door, Don's enhanced hearing caught the frantic screams and shouting on the other side.

Charles reached for the handle and pushed it open.

The stench hit immediately.

Blood, sweat, and the unmistakable stink of bodily fluids clung to the air. The lighting was dimmer here, flickering in places where the damage had reached the electrical systems.

The once-pristine floor was ruined, smeared in dark streaks of red and green, bodies strewn about like discarded trash. The plush seating had been overturned, tables splintered, glass shattered across the marble.

The viewing deck's wide windows—once a showcase of the high-class spectacle below—were now streaked with blood, crude statements scrawled across them in erratic, uneven strokes.

"GREEN JUSTICE"

"RETURN THE LAND"

"DEATH TO THE LEECHES"

Charles's gaze swept over the scene, unreadable. Don barely spared the words a glance before his focus shifted to something more immediate.

Movement.

A small group of five people were still alive in the chaos, pressed near what was once a reserved VIP section. Three men, barely holding their ground, wielding whatever makeshift weapons they could find—a broken bottle, a snapped-off wooden cane, and what might have been a piece of a chair leg.

"Get back!" One of them yelled, swinging wildly. His grip was unsteady, panic making his movements sloppy.

The attackers swarming them weren't just armed—they were armed with purpose. They wielded the same weapons as the Green Thorns encountered on the top floor, but reinforced like living things hardened into bludgeons.

Each swing from them carried weight, snapping furniture in half on impact.

Behind the men, three women cowered, their backs pressed against the bloodstained walls, eyes wide with terror. One had a gash across her forehead, blood dripping down her face as she clutched a trembling friend.

One of the attackers lunged. The man with the cane barely managed to deflect the hit, stumbling backward as the force rattled his arms.

Another enemy raised his bat high—this one thicker, more solid, the vines pulsing faintly.

Don's eyes narrowed. It was time to get involved.

Charles moved first.

With a single, powerful motion, he unfurled his wings, the metallic sheen catching the dim light before they swept forward with force.

**FWOOOM!**

The gust exploded outward, a violent burst of wind tearing through the ruined lounge. The force was enough to send the nearest attackers flying backward, their bodies crashing into overturned tables and blood-slicked floors.

Some hit the walls so hard that framed art shattered on impact, glass raining down around them. Others flipped over the furniture, limbs flailing before they slammed down hard onto the floor.

The survivors—still huddled near the VIP section—shielded their faces, their clothes whipping against their bodies from the sheer power of the gust. The man holding the broken bottle stumbled but caught himself, eyes wide with shock.

Don was already moving.

The moment the stunned attackers hit the ground, he clapped his hands together with a sharp motion.

**BOOM!**

A shockwave rippled outward, sending another wave of attackers falling. The ones closest to him were lifted clean off their feet before being slammed down again, their skulls bouncing off the marble floor with sickening cracks.

The force rattled the very walls, causing dust to spill from the ceiling vents.

But not all of them stayed down.

Despite their injuries, some of the attackers pushed themselves up, their vine-covered weapons twitching as though alive. Their movements were jerky, unnatural—like marionettes tugged by unseen strings. Their bodies didn't react the way a normal person's should.

Don narrowed his eyes. 'They should be unconscious after that.'

One of them—a tall man whose nose had clearly been broken from the impact—let out a wet snarl, his head tilting unnaturally as he charged forward again. His grip tightened around the vine-wrapped bat, green tendrils coiling and flexing around his fingers as if feeding off him.

Don wasn't fazed and moved to meet him.

The attacker swung the bat in a wide arc but Don ducked under it, hearing the whoosh of air as it barely missed his head. Before the man could recover, Don thrust his hand out, slamming his palm into the man's chest with enough force to cave it in.

**CRACK!**

The man's body folded inward as he was lifted clean off the ground and launched backward, his spine bending at an unnatural angle before he smashed through a table, his body going limp.

Don barely had time to register the kill before another came at him.

This one was faster. A woman, her face contorted into something both human and wrong, lunged forward with a jagged dagger coated in that same unnatural green sheen.

She was quick—but Don was faster.

The moment she got in range, he sidestepped, grabbing her by the wrist. With a sharp twist, he wrenched the dagger from her grip before driving his knee into her stomach.

The impact sent spit and blood flying from her lips, her body folding over before he spun her around and used her own momentum to send her crashing into one of her allies.

The two collapsed in a tangled heap, groaning.

On the other side of the room, Charles moved like a shadow.

One of the attackers lunged at him, raising a serrated machete above his head—only for Charles to step inside his guard with effortless grace.

A single arc of silver followed.

Charles's wing slashed across the man's throat in one clean motion, so fast the attacker barely registered what had happened. He froze mid-motion, the machete still gripped tightly in his raised hand.

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Then, the blood came.

A deep, wet gurgle escaped the man's lips as a dark red line split across his neck. His body swayed—then collapsed to the floor, his weapon clattering uselessly beside him.

Charles had already moved on.

Another enemy rushed at him with a twisted, green-bladed knife, but before they could even get close, Charles pivoted, bringing his elbow up in a brutal strike to their jaw.

**CRACK!**

The attacker staggered, dazed.

Without missing a beat, Charles reached out and grabbed them by the collar, using their own momentum to flip them over his shoulder and slam them into the marble floor. The impact was hard, final—their body twitched once, then stilled.

Meanwhile, Don dealt with another wave.

One of the last remaining attackers swung a vine-reinforced club, aiming straight for Don's head. Instead of dodging, Don caught it mid-swing, his fingers tightening around the weapon. The attacker froze, eyes wide.

Don met his gaze. "Bad choice."

With a sharp jerk, Don pulled the club forward, yanking the attacker toward him. Before the man could react, Don's knee drove up into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs in a choked wheeze.

Not done, Don twisted his body, pivoting as he hurled the attacker across the room like a ragdoll. The man's back collided against the bar counter, causing bottles and glasses to shatter around him. He slumped over, unconscious—or dead. Don didn't bother to check.