Transmigrated As An SSS Ranked MILF Overlord

Rawr!

The goblins stormed in, snarling as they charged with weapons raised high. Their crude axes came crashing down toward the ghost—but the specter didn't flinch. One goblin swung hard, but the moment his axe met the ghost's palm, a sharp crack rang out.

The axe snapped in half as though it was simply a mere twig.

Without hesitation, the ghost's snake-like arm coiled upward, his other hand thrusting clean through the goblin's chest. The creature spasmed, eyes bulging—then dropped like a sack of meat.

Elsewhere, Steve was already in motion. A few goblins jerked and twitched mid-run, snarling in confusion. He was pulling their strings—literally. Thin, nearly invisible threads extended from his fingers, manipulating the few he could control and turning them against each other. Clashing steel. Screams. Panic.

But Steve didn't linger to watch the chaos. He bolted, weaving between fallen trees and shattered rocks, his breaths sharp and uneven. Every explosion of violence behind him—the ghost ripping through the horde—was a chance to widen the distance.

The ghost was a wall between him and certain death.

Even when some goblins managed to land a hit, it barely mattered. Their weapons were shattered mid-swing, torn apart just like before. The ghost didn't need a weapon. His limbs were enough. And every strike he dealt sent another enemy to the ground—dead, silent, gone.

Steve kept running, legs pumping, lungs burning. He risked a glance over his shoulder, just once—and what he saw made his breath hitch.

"…Damn. I actually owe you my life," he muttered under his breath, the words foreign on his tongue. "Didn't think I'd ever say something like that."

He ran until the sounds of the battlefield faded into nothing. The roars… the clashes… the screams… all distant echoes now.

Eventually, he slowed, breath ragged, and stumbled to a stop beside a tree. His back slammed into the trunk as he doubled over, one hand clutching his chest, the other gripping a low-hanging branch. He scanned the woods. Quiet. No one was following.

His hand slid up to his forehead, fingers dragging through his damp hair. "Goddamn it," he breathed. "All I wanted was to punch some smug lord in the face… not fight my way out of a damn goblin clan."

He slid down the tree and collapsed onto the forest floor, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his jaw. His thoughts, once chaotic, began to settle.

The ghost… was probably fine.

"I mean, he's already dead, right?" he muttered, exhaling sharply. "What's one more fight to a guy like that?"

But that wasn't what mattered now.

Maggie.

He clenched his jaw. His fingers curled into the dirt beside him. "I finally found her," he said softly. "Still just as gorgeous as ever… and now she's gone again."

He stared ahead, eyes narrowing. "Where the hell did she end up?"

His first instinct was to go back to the villa—track her trail—but then he froze mid-thought.

No. That's not it. Think.

"If she made it back to the forest before, she'll probably try heading somewhere familiar. Somewhere safe."

Then it hit him.

The camp.

He jerked upright, eyes wide. But the realization came with another flash—another memory.

He remembered what he overheard. Not from Maggie. Not from any friend. From them. The ones who had infiltrated the government camp.

They had talked about it. A plan.

To wipe out all the humans.

And worse—they knew. They knew about the refugee camp in the forest.

They were going to strike soon.

Steve's breath caught again. "Shit…"

He stood up straight, heart thudding. He couldn't waste time.

The survivors—the ones who made it out of the villa—they were in danger. The camp wasn't safe anymore. And no one knew it.

He began pacing, talking to himself aloud.

"Think, think… what the hell do I do now? Do I go back? Warn them?" He gritted his teeth, head pounding. "Do I even have time?"

Yeah… that'd be the smart move. Go back. Warn the others.

Steve clenched his fists.

But there's just one problem…

He looked around. Trees. Moss. Uneven ground. No landmarks in sight.

He had no idea where the hell he was.

His eyes darted left, then right—searching, scanning—like somehow the forest would offer him a breadcrumb trail back home. But there was nothing. Just green and more green, trees yawning overhead like silent witnesses.

He'd only been in the town of Miros for a short time. He didn't know the forest paths well—hell, he didn't even know if the direction he was running in was anywhere close to the camp.

"I've been tossed into the middle of the damn woods," he muttered. "And after all that sprinting and near-death crap… I've completely lost track of where I came from."

He paused. Mind racing.

Okay. Okay. Think. Not all is lost.

"The river," he whispered. "If I can find the river again… I might be able to trace my way back to where I met Lemon."

From there, the trail would be easy. He remembered his own footprints, the way they carved through the wet forest floor. If he found that path again, he could just follow it in reverse. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was something.

"Yeah," he said to himself, confidence slowly returning. "That's actually not bad."

With a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet.

His muscles ached, sweat clung to his skin, but there was no time to rest. He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and started moving again—pushing past hanging vines and thick brush.

The terrain dipped, the forest sloping slightly downward. He moved with purpose, boots thudding softly against the damp ground as he hopped over roots and slid down muddy inclines.

The river had to be close. He could feel it. Hear it.

And then—finally—he saw it.

The water shimmered in the faint light, snaking through the forest like a silver thread. Its steady flow was a quiet comfort in the chaos. He dropped to one knee, touching the surface to confirm it wasn't just another illusion of exhaustion.

Cold. Real.

"Alright," he muttered, standing again. "Now think. The current's flowing down… which means I need to head upstream. That's where I met Lemon. That's where the trail starts."

And with that, he took off again—this time following the river's edge, moving against the flow. His pace quickened. His breathing steadied.

I have to do this, he thought. I have to reach the camp before it's too late.

Because if he didn't warn them…

They'd all be dead.

Time passed as Steve moved through the woods, the air thick with heat and tension. The sun, once shy behind the clouds, now hung high and harsh above, casting long, piercing rays through the branches overhead. The forest had begun to bake, the air growing sticky, the shadows shrinking.

Still, he kept going.

He followed the river upstream, heart pounding, eyes sharp, until finally—finally—he reached the familiar clearing. It was the place he'd first run into Lemon. From there, he scoured the forest floor, searching until—

There.

Faint footprints in the mud. His own, mixed with Fiona's. Pressed into the soil, leading away from the water.

He didn't hesitate.

Without pause, he began retracing their path—moving fast, legs burning as he tore through the underbrush. The trees rushed past in blurs, the sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs trailing behind him like echoes of urgency.

He had to reach the camp.

He had to warn them.

Every thought screamed the same mantra: I have to get there. I have to get there before it's too late.

Branches slapped against his arms. He vaulted over logs. Pushed through thorns. The forest seemed to fight him every step of the way—but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

Then—just as the trees began to thin—he saw it.

Through the tangled curtain of leaves and brambles, the refugee camp came into view.

Tents. Makeshift walls. Smoke rising from a small cooking fire.

He was nearly there.

Just a few more strides…

"Stop right there!"

A sharp voice cut through the silence like a blade. Steve skidded to a halt, hands flying up instinctively.

From the treeline, a woman stepped forward. She wore a long coat, sleeves rolled, a thick leather-bound book tucked under one arm—and in her other hand, a loaded arrow, notched and aimed square at his chest.

Steve froze. "Whoa—whoa, easy! What are you doing?!"

Her eyes narrowed. "Name. Purpose. Now."

Before he could answer, another voice called from deeper in the camp.

"Mia! What's going on out there?!"

Another figure appeared—this one younger, dressed in scavenged gear. She jogged up behind the first woman and blinked when she saw him.

"Steve?"

His jaw dropped. "Tonya?"

She jogged past the first woman, ignoring the weapon still aimed in his direction, and stopped just a few feet from him.

"What the hell are you doing here? And who the hell is Fiona? I thought you were supposed to be looking for Ma!"

"Tonya—" he began.

But she kept going, "Don't tell me you got distracted again—"

"Tonya, listen to me!" he snapped. "We don't have time."

She paused, startled by the urgency in his tone.

"We need to get back to the camp. Now."

"Why?" she asked, voice wary.

And then—

ROOOAAARRRR!

The ground seemed to tremble as the sound ripped through the trees, echoing across the camp.

It came from ahead—inside the camp.

Steve's blood ran cold.

He didn't need to guess.

That was no animal.

That was no warning.

It was a goblin.