Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 481: A Messy Visit (Part 1)

Several minutes later—elsewhere.

Above the forested region north of Santos City, beyond the jagged line of the Grissar mountain range, a helicopter drifted through starry skies.

Not just any helicopter. Its frame was painted a deep navy that caught the moonlight in slow, sliding streaks.

The body curved neat, angles softened by expensive design choices that were military-grade but also civilian-luxury. Engines thrummed low and confident, no rattles, no strain—just the smooth push of high-end rotors keeping it aloft.

The forest stretched endless beneath it, a rolling sea of black and silver-green swayed by night winds. Past that, the mansion came into view.

From above, Richmond’s estate looked more fortress than home. Stone walls traced wide boundaries.

Searchlights swept over trimmed courtyards and high hedges with geometric precision. Two landing pads broke the symmetry—one tucked farther out by a service wing, the other pressed close to the mansion’s main span of windows.

That was where the helicopter now angled itself.

Below, black Land Rover Defenders rolled slow along the inner roads, headlights crawling across asphalt. Guards in black suits stood at every corner and every door, rifles cradled against their chests.

Further out, another helicopter circled like a hawk, its mounted spotlight carving pale arcs through the trees.

The descending helicopter rattled the manicured hedges as it lowered. Dust and leaves spiraled upward, carried by rotor wash—whrrr~

Guards rushed in tight formation along either side of the landing pad, boots thudding in perfect rhythm, assault rifles and sub-machine guns kept steady in their grips.

They stopped at their marks, forming a corridor.

At the far end of that corridor, framed by the walkway leading to the main doors, stood Gerald Richmond.

White shirt. No tie. Black slacks. House slippers. In his hand—an open notebook. His brow furrowed, pen scratching a few last lines as the helicopter hovered down onto the pad.

His face didn’t lift to greet it until the rotors had nearly drowned out the sound of his own writing.

The notebook shut with a crisp snap. Without looking, he extended it back.

An older man in a dark suit stepped up behind him and took it. Round glasses glinted under the floodlights. His spine bent forward, posture hunched enough that his cane had long become a permanent limb.

He tucked the book neatly under one arm, his hand tightening over the cane’s handle as the downdraft whipped his thinning hair.

The helicopter touched concrete—thnk~

One of the guards jogged forward, ducking instinctively beneath the blades as he seized the handle. The door clicked, swung outward.

From within, a figure stepped down.

Short. Older. Chubby. A polo stretched faintly over his belly, jeans loose at the knees, sneakers scuffed but clearly designer.

Sunglasses at night, perched comfortably on his face. Brown hair cropped short, beard shaved clean.

A grin already plastered across his face before his shoes hit the pad. On his wrist—an expensive watch caught the light with every idle gesture.

Behind him came two more.

The first—a mountain of a man, black skin gleaming under floodlights, muscles packed into a Hawaiian shirt that looked ready to split at the seams. Khaki pants, boots polished, his bulk carried with casual threat.

The second—a leaner shadow beside him. Asian, slightly shorter, face carved by old scars across one cheek. His eyes were flat, unreadable, his gait the kind that made people instinctively clear a path.

Unlike the mansion guards, their shirts were loud prints of tropical flowers, buttons left half undone. But their posture was tighter, sharper—men who didn’t need a uniform to project authority.

The taller one stepped forward first, his voice carrying above the rotor’s dying churn.

"You should let us step out first, sir."

The chubby man just grinned wider, the watch on his wrist catching another blink of light as he waved a hand dismissively.

He then let out a bit of laughter, head tipping back as he tugged his sunglasses off and folded them lazily in one hand.

"Hah! You worry too much, Kasanda," he said, flashing teeth in a grin at the black guard towering beside him.

Kasanda’s broad shoulders shifted as he dipped his head slightly. "Sorry, sir."

The chubby man turned, his gaze sliding toward the leaner figure at his other flank. With a casual nod he added, "Be more like Han over here."

Han didn’t answer. His face stayed carved in stone as his eyes swept the estate. Every detail seemed to filter through that scarred cheek and settle into judgment—the guard lines, the circling spotlight, even the rhythm of Richmond’s men as they shifted their grips on rifles.

His silence said more than words ever would.

It was then Gerald Richmond moved.

He stepped forward from the end of the walkway, cane tapping once against stone before the older man behind him fell back half a step.

Richmond’s posture didn’t waver despite the slippers on his feet, his white shirt pulled tight across a frame still held upright by will more than youth.

"Good to see you, Abraham," he said. His voice carried steady and low, words almost flattening into monotone. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Abraham’s grin widened. He pivoted fully, striding down the path with his hands outstretched in an exaggerated welcome.

"Ha! Gerald Richmond, you bastard," Abraham called, laughter bubbling out as though they were meeting at a bar and not a fortress under watch. "How’ve you been?"

The two met in the middle of the lit walkway. Hands clasped in a firm shake.

"I’ve been well," Richmond answered, his tone unchanged—slow, low, bored to the ear but audible over the dying sound of the rotors.

"And yourself?"

Abraham didn’t blink at the lack of enthusiasm. His own laugh filled the air, bouncing against the stone walls. "I’ve been great. Ever since my divorce every day feels like a breath of fresh air." He slapped his own belly once for emphasis, sunglasses still dangling from his fingers. "I finally see why you never married."

Richmond’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. Brief. Gone almost instantly.

"Marriage is a waste of time and resources, Abraham," he said, turning already toward the mansion’s wide doors. "And so is speaking about it. Now come. I’m sure we have much to discuss."

Abraham laughed again, the sound rolling behind him as he fell into step. "Ahah, you never change. Always straight to business."

His sneakers scuffed softly against the walkway as he followed Richmond’s steady pace. Behind them, their respective guards formed into a trailing shadow—Kasanda’s bulk moving like a wall, Han’s stare never leaving the perimeter, Richmond’s suited men keeping their weapons angled low but ready.

The mansion swallowed them all as the heavy doors pushed inward with a groan.

———

Some minutes later.

The mansion’s interior opened into an expansive living area—wide, long, and so carefully arranged it felt more like a curated gallery than a home.

Marble floors stretched out beneath low pools of golden light, polished to a quiet sheen. The walls were bare except for a few framed scrolls.

No television. No paintings. No clutter.

Instead, a stage sat recessed into the far side of the room. Upon it, a young woman knelt on a thin cushion, her posture perfectly straight as her lips pressed against a silver flute.

The notes rose and fell in smooth waves, light enough to hover in the air.

Beside her, a man of similar age drew a bow across a violin, each stroke low and careful, weaving his sound through hers.

Their faces—oriental, fine-boned, their gazes lowered toward their instruments—never lifted to acknowledge the audience.

Gerald Richmond’s steps carried Abraham past them without pause, toward a lounge carved into one side of the open room.

Minimalist in style, yet luxurious in every detail. Two long sofas faced the stage at an easy distance, a low table resting between them.

On it—an open cigar kit, cutters, lighters, a neat row of dark-wrapped sticks waiting their turn. At the back wall stood a compact bar, manned not by a human but by an android. Its silver frame was wrapped in matte plating, hands moving with smooth motion as it set bottles in line.

The guards spread to fill the space instinctively. Richmond’s suited men posted themselves by the pillars, rifles lowered but not forgotten.

Kasanda moved to the side of one sofa, bulk blotting out a portion of the light. Han stood with arms folded, eyes never ceasing their slow scan of corners, exits, sightlines.

Gerald gestured toward the sofas. He took the first seat without comment, hand resting against the armrest, his other falling into his lap with ease.

Abraham threw himself onto the opposite sofa like it belonged to him, his grin not dulled by the gravity of the setting.

He plucked one of the cigars from the open kit, snipped it, and struck the lighter with a hiss~ before the flame caught. He leaned back, exhaling smoke in the direction of the ceiling.

"You sure have a strange taste for decoration, Gerald," he said between chuckles. "And even stranger tastes for entertainment."

He tilted his chin toward the stage, where the girl’s flute trilled a delicate run. Abraham’s grin widened as he dragged from the cigar again.

"I will say, though..." He blew smoke through his teeth, words curling with it. "That’s one fine piece of ass. Where’d you find her?"

Richmond didn’t look toward the stage. He lifted two fingers in the android’s direction, a silent command. The machine moved instantly, pulling an expensive-looking bottle from the shelf and setting out glasses.

"I picked her and her brother from the streets of Manila," Richmond said flatly, his eyes on Abraham now. "Their talent was wasted there. And if the girl happens to bear my child once she develops a little more, that isn’t so bad. The boy could also have a promising future as a violinist."

Abraham barked out a laugh, smoke spilling from his mouth as his belly shook.

"Hah! I knew it. You never change. How many children do you even have now?"

The android arrived at the table, placing the bottle down quietly. As it uncorked, Richmond’s gaze barely shifted.

"Twenty-six daughters," he said, tone dry as paper. "Seventeen sons. That I’m aware of, or at least acknowledge."

Abraham shook his head, a smile tugging his lips even as he exhaled another cloud of smoke. The android poured amber liquid into his glass.

"Tsksk. And you call me distracted."

"They all serve a purpose," Richmond replied. His glass was filled next, which he lifted and studied before taking a measured sip. "If they didn’t, they’d be no children of mine."

The android stepped back, silent. Richmond set his glass down with a soft clink~.

"But I digress," he continued, his tone cutting clean as he leaned back into the sofa. "Let’s get onto business, shall we?"

Abraham tapped ash into the tray, his grin as wide as ever.

"If the conversation has to do with money, you know I’m listening."

"Wonderful." Richmond’s fingers brushed against the rim of his glass once before he set it aside fully.

"To start..."