Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

William's stretcher wheels creaked against the stadium floor, the sound scraping through the grass like a dying animal.

His figure — battered, limp, and strapped tight — was slowly devoured by the stadium's shadows as the medical crew hustled him toward the exit.

The other students watched him go.

Some stood rigid, jaws clenched tight enough to crack. Others shuffled awkwardly, like they weren't sure if they should be staring or pretending they weren't scared.

The last glimpse of William's bloodied boots disappearing around the corner seemed to snap the spell.

Murmuring broke out, scattered and low.

"…no way anyone else is beating that guy…"

"Bro, you'd have to be suicidal…"

"…I mean, shit, William got folded like a deck chair, and he was supposed to win this whole thing…"

It wasn't loud — it didn't need to be. The cracks in their resolve spread fast, quiet like mold.

**Hooonk—**

The stadium horn blared, flattening the whispers into silence.

Then the announcer's voice rolled through the space — too bright, too formal, like a mall cop trying to direct a riot.

"The first match is concluded. Candidate Don Bright is now open for challenge once again. Should no one step forward, he may choose to continue or step down."

The words dropped like a stone into the middle of a lake. No ripples. Just sinking dread.

Nobody moved.

The silence wasn't brave. It wasn't even stunned anymore. It was survival instinct, pure and simple. After what they'd just seen, challenging Don wasn't gutsy. It was stupid.

Don let his gaze drift lazily across the crowd. Not a hint of surprise. Not a flicker of pity.

'Predictable,' he thought, shifting his weight slightly, boots scuffing the stage with a soft scrrk. He tucked his hands into his pockets like he had all the time in the world. And he did. They didn't.

Because he wasn't done. William had been enough to prove a point — but not enough to secure the win. Don needed more than nine points. A lot more.

His eyes slid over the group until they snagged on another face.

Ezekiel Blair.

Grade C Talent. Pyromancy, also C-Grade — decent control, above-average aggression, built like he'd spent high school lifting weights and ignoring cardio. Short ash-blond hair buzzed close to the scalp, faint burn scars marking the backs of his knuckles like badges of honor.

His bodysuit was a little too tight across the shoulders, and the flicker of unease behind his brown eyes wasn't doing him any favors.

Don didn't point.

He just said, flat and calm:

"You."

The temperature in the stadium somehow dropped another ten degrees.

All heads snapped toward Ezekiel, who immediately went stiff, like he'd just been mugged by the spotlight. His face twisted, first into a grimace, then a full scowl.

'Shit,' Ezekiel thought, panic chewing through his bravado. 'He's calling us out in order. First William, now me. Top of the food chain my ass. This feels like a firing squad.'

His hands flexed at his sides, unconsciously clenching and unclenching.

'Fight him? Fuck no. That's suicide. William got stretchered out like a crash test dummy and I'm not even half as durable as him.'

A cold bead of sweat rolled down the side of his neck.

He raised his head anyway, jaw tight, chest tight — and yelled out across the stage, voice cracking slightly:

"I submit!"

The word rang louder than a gunshot in the dead stadium.

For a second, no one reacted.

Then came the flood of disbelief — small gasps, a few muttered "what the fuck," and a long, strained silence where everyone just processed what they'd heard.

Ezekiel Blair. The second-favorite to win the entire damn Category A qualifiers. Submitted. Without stepping onto the stage. Without throwing a punch.

Some of the students looked like they'd seen their reflection age ten years.

The Chat reactions were what one would expect;

"Bro just said 'nah fam' and dipped. I respect it 💀💀"

"Lmao Ezekiel blinked and saw God"

"Coward... but a smart coward."

"You think Ezekiel's gonna tell his kids he was a strategic genius?"

"Fr tho, why get folded for free? He playing chess, we playing checkers."

———

Meanwhile, the few Ezekiel loyalists scrambled for damage control.

———

"He was thinking long-term, okay??"

"Living to fight another day IS courage."

"Bro is preserving the bloodline, leave him alone."

———

Don didn't react to any of it. He just let the moment hang, heavy and sour, before turning his gaze to the next.

Third-favorite? Submitted.

Fourth? Same.

Then another.

And another.

It became a ritual.

Eyes lowered. Voices cracked out hollow submissions. Some managed to do it with a shred of dignity. Most didn't.

Forty-seven students bowed out, one after another, until the act of submission didn't even feel embarrassing anymore — it felt like common sense. Like some silent pact had been made:

Let Don have first. Fight for second. Live another day.

Even the announcer sounded worn down, his voice losing its crispness every time he droned out:

"This round goes to Don Bright."

Again. And again. And again.

Until finally:

Total victories: Fifty.

Points: 450.

It was a new record.

The old points record? 238.

Crushed. Buried. Forgotten.

And still, nobody else had touched the stage.

The announcer cleared his throat — poorly hiding the fatigue creeping into his performance — and said mechanically:

"Candidate Don Bright, will you step down… or continue to challenge?"

Everyone — literally everyone — stopped breathing for a second.

They watched Don, as if the answer was a live grenade in his hands.

For the last several rounds, his answer had been obvious. "Continue." "Continue." "Continue."

Now, he paused.

Tilted his head slightly, as if tasting the silence.

Then finally —

"I'll be stepping down."

Fwoosh — it was like the stadium exhaled all at once. Shoulders dropped. Fists unclenched. A few students damn near sagged against each other like survivors of a particularly stupid war.

The sighs of relief spilled across the stadium like a dying tide.

Students let out shaky breaths and some of the more opportunistic board members loosened their ties, hiding their disappointment behind polite murmurs.

Meanwhile, Don walked off the stage with the easy gait of a man who hadn't just rewritten the rules of the school.

His boots hit the floor — thump-thump — steady, uncaring.

The crowd around him peeled back without prompting, giving him an invisible barrier of space.

If anyone had been foolish enough to get close, they would've felt it — the heavy pressure around him, the way the air itself seemed reluctant to touch his skin.

Don's eyes barely shifted.

He had other things to focus on.

A system prompt hovered at the edge of his vision:

———

Objective Complete: Establish Dominance

Reward:

+1,200 Villain Points

+450 Idol Points

+800 Aura Points

———

System Notification:

Villain Points: 10 → 1,210

Idol Points: 600 → 1,050

Aura: 2,734 → 3,534

———

Aura Milestone Achieved: Aura Gaze (Passive)

Your gaze now triggers subconscious dread.

Weaker individuals are 40% more likely to submit, fear, or avoid direct confrontation.

———

Don blinked once, the world sharpening slightly.

He could already feel it.

Students looked his way — then away — as if just meeting his eyes could pull the floor out from under them. Even the ones pretending to be brave had their muscles locked stiff, like animals hoping the predator would lose interest if they just didn't move.

He passed a girl clutching a tablet to her chest — she flinched so hard she almost dropped it.

Another boy near the exit fumbled his footing just trying to sidestep out of Don's way.

He didn't spare them a glance.

The fact half of SHU already considered him a murderer didn't bother him.

Seeing him up close — feeling the aura bleeding off him — that sealed the deal.

To everyone's relief, he left the field without fanfare.

The students didn't so much relax as they deflated — like punctured tires barely holding shape.

The announcer's voice sputtered to life over the speakers:

"With Don Bright stepping down, we will be moving on to our next candidate."

It didn't sound triumphant.

It sounded like someone trying to convince themselves the day wasn't already over.

Inside the VIP booth, luxury warred against reality.

The chairs were plush enough to swallow lesser men whole.

The champagne still sparkled under the overhead lights.

And yet…

The atmosphere felt like a funeral without the courtesy of a corpse.

Several board members sat stiffly, faces twisted into complex expressions of fury, shame, and economic anxiety.

One particularly red-faced man squeezed the armrest of his chair like it was a Latina's ass — desperate, greedy, but ultimately powerless.

Another tapped his polished shoe against the marble floor.

Even Dean Sanchez — the human embodiment of corporate bootlicking — had abandoned his usual cheerful grovel for something approaching a frown.

They were all thinking the same thing.

William was supposed to be the ticket.

The poster boy. The champion.

The clean, marketable success story they could stamp on brochures and sponsorship deals. The kid they could turn into a pipeline of bonuses and networking dinners.

Now?

Stretched off like a bag of broken bones.

Humiliated.

Useless.

Sure, William would still get offers — but not the golden ones. No parent wanted to send their kid to a school where the "best" student got erased live on broadcast.

No sponsor wanted their logo stitched onto a walking cautionary tale.

And worst of all?

The new "best" wasn't even owned.

Don Bright didn't wear their badge.

Didn't cash their checks.

Didn't owe them a fucking thing.

If he and Charles got cleared after the casino incident...

The floodgates would open.

Other institutions would fight to throw contracts at them — and SHU would be remembered as the idiots who had them first and did nothing.

Salt in the wound didn't even begin to cover it.

It was a full surgical incision.

And as if summoned by their collective rage—

**Clink**

Charles Monclaire set down his empty champagne flute on the side table with a delicate finality.

The sound was small, almost polite. But felt louder than a gunshot.

He rose from his seat, smoothing his white jacket with a graceful flick of the wrist. Not a single hair was out of place.

Not a single emotion shown.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, his voice syrupy and unbearable, "this has been lovely. But I have other business to attend to."

He gave a languid smile — the kind that said he enjoyed every second of their suffering — and added:

"I'm sure you understand how troublesome calculating profits can be."

Dean Sanchez, to no one's surprise, tried to bolt upright like a trained dog catching a scent.

But Charles beat him to it, already stepping away.

"No need to see me out," Charles said, not even glancing over his shoulder. "I know the way."