Transmigrated As An SSS Ranked MILF Overlord

Steve stood still, his hands clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword, his chest rising and falling with labored breath. Blood dripped from his lip, staining his chin, but he didn't wipe it. His eyes were locked on the beast in front of him—the towering, ash-skinned goblin with eyes like burning coal.

He had spoken the words. The summoning command from the Author's Notebook. The phrase that was supposed to bring the ghost forth.

But nothing happened.

The air was still. Too still.

Only the heavy thuds of the ash goblin's boots echoed through the trees, growing louder with every step. The other goblins had stopped—uncertain, even hesitant. But this one? This one walked with purpose. The forest seemed to part for him as he advanced, every stride deliberate, every stomp like the tolling of a death bell.

He stopped a few meters from Steve.

So close now.

Steve's knees trembled. Not from fear—no, not just fear—but from the weight of his failure. He had counted on that ghost. Placed his life in its hands.

And nothing came.

Why the hell isn't it working?

The thought stabbed through his skull like a spike.

Why isn't the damn ghost coming out?!

Still nothing.

No flicker of light. No wraith. No salvation.

Steve swallowed hard and glanced down at one of the goblin corpses at his feet. His grip tightened. He wasn't mad. He wasn't hallucinating. He knew he had said the words right.

The forest around him held its breath. Every branch still. Every leaf frozen.

Then suddenly—movement.

It started with a twitch. One of the goblins at his feet stirred, its fingers curling slightly. Steve's eyes widened.

And then, chaos.

A loud, wet SLASH ripped through the silence. Blood sprayed into the air—thick, dark, and steaming.

But it wasn't Steve's.

One of the goblins, now under his control, had swung his axe with brutal precision and carved open the neck of his own companion. The blade sliced clean through, severing the head. The body crumpled with a thud, and the head rolled across the dirt, stopping at another goblin's foot.

That was Steve's signal.

The charging goblins halted mid-sprint, their weapons still raised, their snarling faces frozen in disbelief. They turned toward the source of the strike—and for the first time, Steve saw something he never expected:

Confusion.

Not rage. Not bloodlust.

Confusion.

They didn't understand. Why had their comrade struck down his own?

Steve didn't hesitate.

He dove deeper into the current of mana flowing around him, reaching out with his will. His mind latched onto another goblin, then another. With swift, deliberate movements, he twisted their bodies like puppets.

A second goblin turned on its companion, blade slashing across the chest. Another followed, ramming a spear through a friend's stomach.

Screams erupted.

Not of fury—but of desperation. Terror.

They tried to resist. Steve could feel it—some of them struggling, fighting to take back control of their limbs. They blocked attacks, shouted in their guttural tongue, even struck back at their controlled comrades. But as long as they could move—even an inch—Steve forced their hands to strike again.

Slash after slash.

Attack after attack.

Controlled goblins tore into the clan that had surrounded him. Metal rang out. Blood painted the grass. The forest lit up with the cries of goblins turning on their own, driven by a force none of them could understand.

Steve stood in the center of it all, teeth bared, chest heaving.

He didn't even know how many he controlled now. Twelve? Thirteen?

It didn't matter.

He would make them destroy each other.

And in the chaos, he would run.

That was the plan.

Kill as many as possible.

Then escape while they were too busy dying to notice.

It was his only chance.

The clash raged on.

Weapons slammed against weapons. Steel clashed. Axes tore through flesh. The brutal symphony of war echoed through the forest canopy, sharp and unrelenting.

And in the middle of it all—Steve stood like a conductor, puppeteering the chaos.

He could feel it now. The pull of mana in his veins, the thread of his will stretching out and taking hold. Thirteen goblins—maybe more—were under his control. Their limbs jerked unnaturally, weapons raised not by instinct, but by his command.

And somehow... it was working.

A twisted grin crept across his face, not out of triumph—but disbelief.

"I'm actually doing it…" he thought. "I'm making an impact."

The goblins that surrounded him weren't just mindless beasts anymore. He saw it clearly now in the way they reacted—not with rage, but with hesitation. Some of them weren't trying to kill their possessed comrades. They were trying to stop them. They held back, grabbed at their weapons instead of going for the kill.

There was… camaraderie among them.

The clash did not cease.

It thundered on—raw, brutal, unrelenting.

The air rang with the metallic grind of steel slamming against steel, the crunch of bone, the screams of dying goblins. Their shrieks echoed through the forest, carried on the wind like a warning to anything else still breathing out there.

And at the heart of it all stood Steve.

His fingers trembled slightly from the strain, his chest heaving with each breath, but his focus never wavered. Mana coursed through his veins like wildfire, and with it, control. He stood in the eye of the storm—puppeteer of carnage.

Thirteen goblins moved under his command. Thirteen savage beasts with blades and axes, snarling mouths and bloodied limbs, now twisted into unwilling instruments of his survival.

Each one danced to his will.

One swung a rusted cleaver and split its comrade's arm open at the elbow. Another drove a jagged spear into the gut of a confused goblin who had only tried to shield him. Blow after blow, they turned on each other—not because they wanted to, but because Steve made them.

And in that moment, a strange expression bloomed on his face—a crooked smile, half-exhausted, half in disbelief.

He could feel the difference now.

This wasn't desperation. This wasn't wild instinct.

This was control.

Real control.

His mind reached out like strings tugging marionettes, each pull calculated, each movement deliberate. For the first time since this nightmare began, Steve felt like he had weight in the world—like he was no longer a mouse in a maze but the one turning the levers.

But even in the midst of his triumph, something flickered at the edge of his awareness.

He noticed it in the way the goblins moved—the ones still free. Their strikes weren't as savage, not as ruthless. They were trying to grab their possessed kin, not kill them. Holding them back. Shouting in their guttural tongue.

There was hesitation in their eyes.

Concern.

They're not just mindless monsters, Steve realized. They're trying to save each other…

There was a bond there. Primitive, maybe. Brutal. But real.

And Steve?

He was tearing it apart.

Still—he didn't stop.

His breath came faster, adrenaline burning through his body like lightning. Every second that passed gave him more blood, more chaos, more opportunity. The confusion was spreading, thick and heavy. Goblins screamed in pain and disbelief as their brothers struck them down. They didn't understand what was happening. Didn't know the source.

But Steve did.

He was the source.

"I've pushed the limit," he thought, sweat dripping down his temple. "Thirteen. That's as many as I can hold."

His muscles twitched. His mana reserves were straining, stretched thin across so many living bodies. It was like juggling with blades—miss a single beat, and everything would come crashing down.

But that was fine.

He didn't need to hold it forever.

Just long enough.

His eyes scanned the battlefield, and for a moment, it was like time slowed. The possessed goblins swung again. And again. Blood sprayed like mist through the trees. The air stank of iron, sweat, and burning energy. Screams pierced the canopy.

This is it, he thought.

This is my window.

"I'll kill as many as I can… and then slip away in the chaos."

A single breath left his lips.

Calm. Focused. Deadly.

"That's the only chance I have to survive."

Roars and steel clashed as chaos unfolded. Steve took slow, deliberate steps back through the fray, his eyes scanning for the right moment to vanish into the chaos. He'd nearly made it—just a few more steps—when a thunderous roar erupted.

It shook the battlefield.

But that wasn't what truly stopped him.

In that instant, Steve lost all control over his puppeteer ability. Every goblin under his influence collapsed to the ground, gasping for air like prisoners released from an unseen grip.

"What the hell just happened?" he muttered, stunned.

His gaze flicked sideways—and then he saw it.

The ashen goblin.

It wasn't hate that burned in the creature's eyes, but a chilling mixture of confusion… and recognition. As though it saw something familiar within Steve. Something it understood.

Steve's blood ran cold. A sudden, terrible realization struck him.

He turned, bolting in the opposite direction.

But before he could get far, the goblin blurred forward—no teleportation, just sheer, terrifying speed. It reappeared directly in front of him, towering, still staring. Still studying.

Without hesitation, Steve drew his dagger. It extended into a blade mid-motion as he hurled it toward the goblin's chest.

The creature batted it aside like a twig.

By the time it looked again—Steve was gone.

It let out a growl of frustration. Then, in one furious roar, the goblins stirred from their confusion. They raised their heads—and charged into the forest once more.

Steve was already sprinting, heart pounding, breath ragged. But he could hear them coming. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Gaining.

He was out of time. Trapped.

Until he heard them.

Two voices.

Familiar.

He flicked his eyes to the side—and froze in disbelief.

Maggie.

He saw Maggie.