Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Don sat on the cold, uneven ground of the catacombs, his body aching but his mind still buzzing with the adrenaline of the fight.

His clothes were stained with the snake's blood, his own blood, and the grime of the catacombs.

He glanced at his hands, slick with red and trembling slightly from the exertion. Despite the pain, despite the close calls, he couldn't help but still feel a rush of satisfaction. The danger, the thrill of the battle—it was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

In the next moment, a system prompt appeared in his vision, the familiar translucent text floating before him.

———

**Achievement Unlocked: Face Your Fears.**

**Reward: Trait Upgrade: Bronze Unfazed to Silver Unfazed—Near-death experiences, strange situations, and intimidating foes will no longer faze you.**

**+500 aura.**

———

Don grinned at the notification. "Not bad," he muttered to himself.

He could already feel the difference—the lingering tension he felt from the fight was dissipating faster than before. His breathing steadied, his heartbeat slowed, and the fear that had gripped him at the start of the battle was completely gone.

He wondered briefly what it would take to further enhance his senses, to push himself beyond his current limits. But those thoughts were interrupted by the faint squeaking of rats.

He turned his head toward the sound, his senses already on high alert. But unlike before, when the noise had filled him with concern, he now felt only calm. He spotted the mutant rats gnawing on the remains of the snake, their sharp teeth tearing through the tough scales with ease. Disgusting, but no longer terrifying.

"Better get out of here before something worse shows up," Don said to himself, standing up and stretching his sore muscles. His ribs and arms still ached, but the pain was manageable. He knew he needed to leave before the scent of blood drew in more predators.

He started making his way back to the entrance, dispatching a few mutant rats that dared to approach him. His strikes were quick and hard, his superhuman senses guiding him through the darkness with relative ease.

When he finally reached the stairs leading back to the church, he climbed them quickly, eager to return to the light.

As he emerged from the catacombs and into the church's back room, the dim daylight filtering through the broken windows, Don took a moment to assess his condition.

His clothes were filthy, torn in several places, and he was covered in a mix of dirt, blood, and sweat.

He frowned at his reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall. "Great. I should've packed a change of clothes," he muttered. Going back home like this would undoubtedly raise questions, especially from Samantha.

He checked his phone and saw that he had spent over fifty minutes in the catacombs. "That should be enough for today," he decided. The sensory overload training had been intense, but effective. His reflexes felt sharper and his awareness heightened. He felt more in tune with his surroundings and more capable of handling whatever came his way.

As he walked back toward his car, reflecting on the progress he had made, he noticed something out of place. "Huh?"

A group of four individuals in ragged clothing had gathered around his car, their attention focused on breaking into it. One of them, a burly man with a large rock in hand, stood poised to smash the driver's side window.

Don's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. The men looked rough, desperate—perfectly willing to do whatever it took to get what they wanted. When they noticed him approaching, their initial panic faded, replaced by a sense of superiority as they took in his disheveled appearance.

Two of the men reached into their coats and pulled out knives, while the other two brandished rocks. The one holding the large rock by the car warned, "Open the car, or you'll get hurt."

Don's expression remained indifferent, almost bored. "I'd like to see you try," he replied, his voice low and steady.

Without waiting for them to make the first move, he started walking toward them, his posture relaxed but his senses on high alert. After fighting in the pitch-black catacombs against a deadly giant snake, these petty thugs with their crude weapons seemed laughably easy.

The man with the rock was the first to act, swinging the heavy stone toward Don's head. But Don's reflexes were faster—he sidestepped the blow with ease, his movements controlled.

Before the man could react, Don grabbed his arm, twisting it sharply until he heard a sickening **crack**. The rock fell from the man's hand as he screamed in pain, clutching his broken arm.

The two with knives lunged at him next, but Don caught the first man's wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the ground. He then delivered a swift kick to the man's knee, buckling it backward with a gruesome **pop**.

The second man slashed at Don's chest, but Don ducked under the blade, grabbing a rusty metal rod from the ground and driving it into the man's side. The thug gasped, collapsing to the ground in agony.

The remaining two, seeing how effortlessly Don had dismantled their friends, hesitated for a moment before charging at him in a desperate attempt to overpower him.

Don met their charge head-on, using the metal rod to block one of the men's attacks before swinging it upward to crack the man's jaw with a **thud**. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

The last thug tried to flee, realizing too late that he was outmatched.

But Don was faster—he grabbed the man by the collar and slammed his head against the side of a rusted car, the impact cracking the man's skull with a sickening **crunch**. The thug's body went limp, falling to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Don stood among the limp figures, breathing heavily but feeling no remorse for what he'd done. These men had chosen to attack him, and he had responded in kind.

He crouched down beside one of the groaning thugs, his voice cold as he asked, "Are there more people around here?"

The thug, clutching his injured side, spat at Don, his eyes filled with defiance. "Fuck off!"

Don's expression didn't change but one could see the irritation in his eyes.

He grabbed the man by the back of the head and slammed it against the side of a car, killing him instantly. He then turned to the remaining two thugs, who were barely conscious, their faces contorted in pain.

"Anyone else?" he asked, his tone devoid of emotion.

Neither of them spoke, their eyes glazed over with the realization that they were about to meet the same fate as their comrades.

Don didn't hesitate—he ended their lives swiftly, efficiently. It was cleaner that way, he told himself. No loose ends.

With the thugs dealt with, Don wiped the blood from his hands and retrieved his keys.

He got into his car, glancing one last time at the bodies laying around the area. There was strangely no satisfaction in what he had done, just a grim acknowledgment of the necessity of it.

He started the car and drove away from Old Town, leaving the desolate streets and the corpses behind. The training had been tough, but effective. He had pushed his limits, tested his resolve, and emerged stronger.

But as he drove back toward the city, the adrenaline slowly faded, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The violence, the bloodshed—it was becoming a part of him.