Transmigrated As An SSS Ranked MILF Overlord-Chapter 45: Visionary

Steve sat outside the house on a weathered wooden bucket, flipped upside down like a makeshift chair.

The dusk air curled around him with a gentle breeze, carrying with it the scent of dust and faint woobd smoke from nearby chimneys.

His eyes stared blankly ahead—or so it would seem to any passerby. But inside, a storm of thoughts churned.

Before him floated a translucent system interface, its letters glowing faintly in a silver-blue hue. The interface spoke in a crisp, genderless voice that echoed only within his ears

[Skill Acquired: Visionary.]

The words shimmered at the top of the interface, hovering with a quiet authority that made his chest tighten.

He stared at it, unblinking, barely able to believe what he was seeing.

'Visionary...ehh?'

His first real magical ability.

Finally. He had it now. A genuine skill. Something arcane.

And yet, the excitement didn't come crashing in with a triumphant roar. Instead, a lingering question hung in the air like a damp mist-

'What the hell am I supposed to do with this?'

Sure, the skill sounded cool. Visionary. But how was he supposed to use it?

Following its description, it could only prove useful against stealus-user opponents, which there was none to fight right now.

And even if they were, he probably wouldn't even stand a chance against them, depending on their rank since the only "weapon" he technically had access to was a rusty kitchen knife still lying untouched in a drawer.

He hadn't even bothered to steal it yet.

That thought alone made him chuckle bitterly.

'Magical skill? Check. Actual weapon?...Not quite.'

His funds were laughable. His equipment, nonexistent. And as he sat there, leaning slightly forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers loosely interlaced, he let out a low sigh.

"I'm supposed to be the protagonist, right?" he muttered.

"So what now?"

His mind flicked toward the Author's Notebook—that strange item, that loophole that had saved his life once already.

He'd used it once in a moment of desperation, and the universe had bent to his words.

Dire wolves had almost torn him apart, jaws snapping inches from his face just like that.

No incantations. No visible spell. No clue as to how it had worked. It defied the world's logical structure. Magic, even the author's notebooks own power, usually followed rules in this place. But this? This was something else entirely.

'What the hell did I unleash that day? Or better yet, what else can the Author's Notebook truly do?'

Questions upon questions, and no answers in sight. Not yet.

Still, he was alive. That had to count for something.

His gaze drifted to his arms as he rolled up his sleeves, examining the faint muscles running along them. He wasn't scrawny, not anymore. All the stress, the survival, the near-death moments—they had forged a leaner, slightly more toned version of himself. But still, he was nowhere near strong enough.

"If I'm going to compete with the other mages in the arcane bloom academy" he muttered, standing up.

"I have to be better. Stronger. Not just magically, but physically too."

A devious grin tugged at his lips as he cracked his neck. His eyes narrowed with intent.

'I have to do it. It's a start atleast. The milf overlord shouldn't just have women at every corner around him- he should be tough as hell as well!'

He turned back toward the house. The sun was slipping below the horizon, its final orange glow casting long shadows across the backyard.

As the world began to dim, a different thought pushed its way to the front of his mind.

'Tonight's going to be a good night. Because tonight... is the night I fuck Tonya...I might sound a bit overconfident, but I'm almost certain of it...I can do...no, I will do it tonight.'

A mischievous smirk played on his lips as he made his way inside.

There was a fire in his veins now. Not just lust. Purpose.

But before the reward came the grind.

He tightened the straps on his worn sandals and gently rose to his feet, his face set with grim determination.

Time to begin the training arc.

***

That day, Rambaya Steve began his first true daily routine.

His own personal hell. His path to power.

The first week was going to br grueling, but definitely worth it. He started with a five-kilometer run that left his lungs burning and his legs screaming. H

e didn't stop. Couldn't afford to. He pushed through the pain, sweat pouring down his back and soaking through his shirt.

Back at the house, he'd collapse into push-ups—starting with just ten at a time. He kept going. Ten became twenty. Then thirty. He aimed for 200 each day.

Then came the sit-ups. One hundred.

His muscles ached. His joints cracked. But in due time, as the day slowly came to an end, so did his daily reps as well.

And as his body toughened, so did his resolve.

The sun dipped lower and lower, and soon, night arrived like a velvet curtain drawn over the world.

The town of Mirrors began to quiet. Windows dimmed. The market square stilled. Conversations gave way to silence, and the stars began their slow watch overhead.

And deep into the night, in the kitchen of the Jobson house, Steve waited.

Leaning casually against the kitchen counter, arms folded, his eyes were fixed on the door like a hunter watching a snare.

The kitchen lights were dim, casting amber shadows on the walls. He tapped his finger against the cool tile surface, his expression unreadable.

'If she's coming, she'll come.'

He repeated the words in his head like a mantra. But even so, he felt the slightest tremor of anticipation beneath his skin.

Then, at last—

creaaaak...

The door opened.

Soft footsteps echoed.

Steve's eyes flicked up, the smallest glint dancing in them.

Tonya stepped in, silhouetted by the hall light behind her.

Her gaze had already fallen, as if her body moved in rhythm with a silent truth she had long accepted. Deep down, she knew exactly what was about to unfold.

The night... was only just beginning.

***

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