Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 371: Don Vs Everyone (Part 6)
All eyes were on William again.
But this time, the mood had shifted. There was no awe. No tension. Just a quiet sort of dread, like watching someone walk barefoot toward a lit furnace.
And William? He wasn't leaping anymore.
He walked.
Not slow, not limping—just... walking. No theatrics. No power displays. Just one foot in front of the other, the same way someone walks toward a job interview they know they won't get.
He told himself it was strategy—not risking further damage to his leg.
The students around him didn't care.
"He's just trying to get it over with."
"Man, I almost feel sorry for him."
William heard them. He didn't respond. Didn't flinch.
Just clenched his jaw tight enough to strain the muscle and kept climbing.
**Thmp**—his boots hit the stage again.
Third time.
Final time.
He didn't look around. Didn't acknowledge the murmurs or the way some students avoided eye contact. He just moved to his position, fists already half-raised.
He wasn't stupid. He knew he couldn't win.
But this wasn't about that anymore.
It was about not quitting. About not walking away with the world thinking Don Bright had broken him.
He just wanted one hit. That was all.
Even a graze. Just something that left a mark.
Don stood across from him, posture unchanged. Still loose. Still quiet. But his eyes—when they met William's—were different now.
He didn't look angry.
He looked... tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Don exhaled through his nose and gave the faintest shake of his head, lips pulling into something like a grimace.
Sympathy.
For the crowd, it read as restraint. A calculated pause. The kind of expression a stronger fighter gives before putting a weaker one down gently.
'Good,' Don thought. 'Let them read it that way.'
He knew the optics mattered. Smashing William into the stage a third time with no expression would make him look like a monster. Showing reluctance? That softened the blow.
Let him be feared. Not hated.
But William didn't see it that way.
He saw pity.
'He's mocking me.' He set his jaw harder. 'He doesn't think I'm a threat at all.'
From the announcer, a dry throat cleared over the mic.
"It seems William Barns is determined to finish all three rounds."
A brief pause. You could almost hear the unspoken why in his tone.
"You may begin at the sound of the horn."
Silence.
Real silence.
Not anticipation. Not reverence.
Just everyone waiting for it to be over.
William's heart was thumping now—too fast, too loud. He tried to wet his mouth, but it was dry. His palms itched with sweat, his leg still throbbed, and he had to keep blinking just to stay focused.
Then—
**BWAAAAAAM**
The horn rang.
"AHHHHH!"
William screamed and charged—no hesitation, no overthinking. Just raw adrenaline and rage firing through every muscle.
**Thmp-thmp-thmp-thmp**
His boots pounded the stage faster than ever before. He poured everything he had left into speed, into power, into one final attack.
Don didn't move.
Not at first.
William closed the gap and threw a straight punch toward Don's face—hard, fast, textbook perfect.
Don sidestepped.
But William was ready.
The punch was bait.
"HRAAGH—!"
William snapped upward with an uppercut, aiming for Don's chin with everything he had left.
**BOOM** freёwebnoѵel.com
The punch collided.
But Don had raised one arm to shield his face—the blow struck just below the elbow, hitting muscle and bone with a sound that echoed.
And for a moment, William felt it.
That surge.
That flicker of adrenaline that screamed I hit him!
But it didn't last.
Because Don hadn't moved.
Not even a step back.
Not even a blink.
And William's fist... hurt.
Because that arm had absorbed it all.
The force. The impact. Stored and sealed like it was nothing.
Don's eyes flicked downward.
William saw it. Panic hit.
He tried to jump back, tried to disengage—
But it was too late.
Don's leg swept out in a blur, **CRACK**—right into William's injured leg.
His knee buckled. His body twisted.
**Thmp—**
William was airborne for a second. Falling.
But before he hit the ground—
Don's fist was already rising.
All the force he'd absorbed from William's punch, released.
**THWAM**
Don's uppercut hit square in the torso, just below the ribs.
William's body lifted from the stage like a ragdoll. His spine arched. His mouth opened—
**Hhhrk—**
—and blood sprayed from his lips in a fine mist.
**THMP**
He crashed down on both knees, arms limp, chest heaving in painful, wheezing jerks.
His hands gripped his stomach without thinking.
Everything ached.
Every breath scraped his throat like glass.
He tried to look up. Just a little.
Don hadn't moved.
Still standing.
Still waiting.
The moment William hit the stage—knees crashing, blood in his throat—the arena gasped.
A sharp, collective inhale, like the whole stadium had just seen something snap.
Two moves. That's all it had taken.
A sweep. An uppercut.
Now William Barns was hunched on the floor, gasping wetly, blood and spit dripping from his lips in long, red strands. His fingers clutched at his torso, unsure if they were trying to cover the pain or keep it from spilling out.
He opened his mouth to speak—
**Splk**
Only more blood hit the floor.
The horn blared again, faster this time. Urgent.
**BWAAAM**
"William Barns has been ruled too injured to carry on," the announcer said, voice sharper now, tighter. "Don Bright takes this round as well. Final match score—Don Bright, nine points. William Barns, zero."
The finality in his tone hit harder than the blow itself.
William tried to rise.
His arms trembled. His knees shook. He planted one boot under him and pushed—
**Crack**
His leg gave out. The same leg. The one Don had targeted without a blink.
He slumped again, eyes fluttering. Vision blurring around the edges like water seeping into paper. His lungs hurt. His ribs screamed. Every movement felt like it was being punished in real-time.
Still, he turned his head upward. Looked at the shape of Don at the edge of his vision. Not to plead. Just to look.
Don watched him.
Unmoved.
And then—he sighed.
It wasn't a dramatic exhale. Just quiet.
Sympathetic.
"You should've just given up," Don said. Flat. Calm. Almost... tired.
William's fingers dug into the stage beneath him.
He didn't respond. Couldn't.
**Whrrr—clank-clank**
The sound of servos and motors rang out as the medical androids approached. Twin units, chrome-bodied with sterile white visors, climbed the stage with fluid speed, pushing a compact stretcher between them.
William didn't fight them.
Didn't wave them off.
Just stared at Don with every ounce of hate left in his body as they approached.
The stretcher extended. He was rolled onto it with a hiss of hydraulic support, his arms going limp at his sides.
As they began to carry him off, his eyes stayed locked on Don.
Don didn't watch him go.
He turned away.
The live stream chats were quick to react to this.
-----
[Chat-12-A]
donLuvr88: LMFAOOOO THREE ZEROOOO
Voidblade: I mean… bro got folded like an omelet
Killjoy: Don didn't even try this last round.
HexDoll: heh. shoulda tapped out after the first boot
-----
[Chat-44-E]
godcomplex: this dude's a psycho. he could've just stopped
Haywire17: can't wait to see Don get taken down. someone's gonna do it.
ashentears: he's a menace. not a hero.
-----
[Chat-44-H]
synthlogic: realistically, William should've stepped down
EzMentality: this was brutal but efficient. Don played the system
netwatcher: this is why the hero field's a bloodsport now. logic over pride.
