Transmigrated As An SSS Ranked MILF Overlord
Chapter 90: The Spiral

Chapter 90: The Spiral

"F-Fuck it... God. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Steve’s voice cracked through the empty hallway, loud at first, but trailing into a hoarse whisper.

He ran a trembling hand through his unkempt hair, the tips of his fingers digging into his scalp, clawing as if he could scrape away the chaotic thoughts boiling inside.

His footsteps faltered. He stopped in place, hunched forward slightly, muttering to himself.

"God fucking damn it... What the hell is happening to me?"

The words tumbled out in broken fragments, more like an argument with the air than a coherent thought. He was spiraling. His mind wasn’t just racing — it was tearing itself apart.

’You died. You died. I died.’

The words echoed in his skull like a cruel chant, growing louder and more mocking with every repetition.

"No." he snapped aloud, shaking his head as though he could rattle the memory loose.

"No fucking way. No fucking way in hell did I die."

His voice grew louder, echoing against the marble walls of Arcane Bloom’s hallway.

"I’m the Harlem Overlord." he said, his voice rising with a deranged sort of pride.

"I’m the fucking author. There’s no way in hell I’m going to die. That’s not how this story goes."

He shouted the words like a man trying to overwrite reality itself — as though volume alone could make it true.

"Fuck! No, no, no, no—"

He stopped again, clutching his temples as his knees bent slightly. His breath came in ragged bursts.

’Steady your mind, Steve. Steady your fucking mind.’

He clenched his fists. His thoughts were skidding wildly — like a car on black ice.

"All I have to do is get stronger, right?" he muttered, barely audible now.

"Improve my reps and my magic training as well. If I do that... then I have a chance. I still have a chance..."

But even as he said it, the lie of hope fell flat in his mouth.

"God damn it." he growled.

"I thought I was making progress. I really thought I was getting somewhere in this academy. Now I’m going to die? I’m... really going to die?"

His voice cracked at the last word.

"I can’t even think straight."

Without thinking, without planning, he turned sharply and stormed off, his boots striking hard against the stone floor, echoing down the corridor as he made a beeline for the maintainer’s restroom.

He shouldered the door open and slammed it behind him.

Empty.

Thank God.

The dim lighting buzzed above him.

He didn’t waste a second before moving toward the corner of the room where a large stone barrel sat beside the sinks, filled with water. Inside it floated a single tin cup — old, dented, but serviceable.

He plunged his hand in and grabbed the cup, his hand shaking. Drawing a scoop of water, he splashed it onto his face.

Again.

And again.

The cold struck like needles. He didn’t care, if anything, he welcomed it

Over and over, he doused himself, until his entire face and neck were dripping, water falling from his chin in rivulets onto the polished floor.

His breath slowed. Not entirely, but enough.

Sigh... sigh...

He exhaled harshly, trying to catch his rhythm, palms now planted firmly on the porcelain sink.

His soaked reflection stared back at him in the mirror. Hollow-eyed. Trembling.

But at least now he wasn’t screaming.

His thoughts were still jagged, but not as chaotic. Not as sharp. They weren’t slicing into his brain anymore — just dull hammer-blows now.

"Okay... okay. That’s better."

He spoke the words aloud to himself, grounding himself in sound, in voice.

He looked around. The maintainers room remained empty. It felt like a tiny island in a sea of madness.

But even now, in this solitude, the questions wouldn’t stop.

’She lied to me....’

His jaw tightened.

"She really lied about her name..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.

His thoughts stumbled. Conflicted.

"So why wouldn’t she lie about... me? About my future?"

A bitter laugh escaped him — humorless, sharp.

"God damn it."

He slapped a wet hand to his forehead, dragging it down slowly.

"I don’t know why... but part of me believes it. Part of me actually believes I’m going to die."

And that was the real problem.

It wasn’t just fear or panic. It was belief.

The kind that snuck into your bones and whispered during the silence.

Steve Jobson.

The self-declared Harlem Overlord.

The author.

Was he actually going to die here?

So soon?

"After everything I’ve worked for? After everything I dreamed of?"

He squeezed his eyes shut.

’I can’t let that happen.’

"I can’t just sit back." he said aloud.

"I have to do something."

But the question lingered — What was going to kill him? or rather... Who?

’A sword... launched into my heart, huh?’

But then—

One thought cut through the fog.

Clear. Icy.

The Queen Witcher.

’She was the reason I was here in the first place...If I truly am in danger... then I need to train harder. Push farther.’

And there was no better person to help him than her.

She was strong. So strong.

If anyone could prepare him for death... or help him dodge it... it was her.

Steve opened his eyes again. The mirror was still fogged, but he no longer looked like a broken man.

Just a desperate one.

And desperation could be turned into something sharp.

"Alright." he whispered to himself.

"I’m going to do it. I’m going to go see the Queen Witch."

He grabbed a towel from the wall, dried his face quickly, and stepped out of the maintainer’s room with renewed urgency.

His wet hair clung to his forehead as he marched forward, eyes focused, jaw set.

His thoughts were steadying now, settling into something like strategy.

’Train harder. Get stronger.’

Crude...But effective.

He turned down the hallway leading toward the royal sector — the section of the academy reserved for the elite, the prodigious, the powerful.

It was strange walking here. His boots echoed differently on this floor. The air felt charged — like every tile was soaked in magic and memory.

But just as he turned the corner, a familiar voice sliced into his thoughts.

"Steven Jobson."

He halted mid-step. His heart didn’t skip — it lurched.

He turned slowly.

Two guards stood behind him.

One of them — instantly recognizable. She had been there during his very first day. A member of the group who’d escorted him to the Queen Witcher on his first journey to the academy.

Her eyes were cold, unreadable.

"It’s good you’re here." she said, stepping forward with a faint nod.

"The Queen Witch has requested to see you."

Silence stretched in the air.

Steve didn’t answer.

His mind was racing again — but not in chaos this time. In calculation, because in as much as he did intend to see her at that moment, he couldn’t help but ponder the pending question-

’Huh...she wants to see me?...Is this a coincidence? Or is something actually wrong?’

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