The fluorescent lights of the office hummed their eternal, soul-crushing song. Victor Smith, thirty-four years old, five-nine, and carrying the gentle paunch of a man who considered walking to the printer a cardio workout, slumped in his ergonomic chair. His cubicle was a beige prison of failed dreams and motivational posters he'd long since learned to ignore. On his monitor, a spreadsheet that would make a lesser weep stared back, its cells filled with numbers that meant nothing.
"Another Tuesday, another reason to question all my life choices," he muttered to the half-eaten cup of instant noodles steaming on his desk.
It was his lunch break. His one, precious moment of freedom in an eight-hour shift of purgatory. He navigated his mouse away from the spreadsheet, a small act of rebellion, and clicked on his secret browser tab. It was filled with the kind of art that definitely violated the company's acceptable use policy. He'd just found a new masterpiece—a particularly depraved piece involving a demon queen and her… devoted son.
"Heh. Classic," he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. He took a huge slurp of the piping hot noodles, the broth flooding his senses with artificial chicken flavor. He scrolled down to the comments section, a place where fellow connoisseurs of the refined arts gathered.
One comment, in particular, caught his eye. *'This artist understands the sacred bond between a mother and her son. A bond so pure, it must be expressed through… unconventional means.'*
Victor lost it. A choked snort escaped his lips, which was immediately followed by a catastrophic error in judgment. He tried to laugh and swallow at the same time.
The noodle went down the wrong pipe.
It wasn't a gentle, dignified choke. It was a full-body, convulsive event. His eyes bulged. His hands flew to his throat, a useless gesture. The noodle, a traitorous strand of wheat and sodium, had formed a perfect, air-blocking plug. He slammed his fist against his chest, once, twice. Nothing. The world began to gray at the edges. His last thought wasn't of his family, or his unfulfilled potential, or the meaning of life.
It was, *'Well, this is just fucking ridiculous.'*
And then, darkness.
_____________________
The first thing he noticed was the cold. It was a deep, bone-chilling cold that had nothing to do with office air conditioning. The second thing was the smell—a mix of old parchment, something metallic and vaguely like blood, and expensive perfume.
*Am I in hell? The executive suite?*
Victor's eyes fluttered open. He wasn't in his cubicle. He wasn't in a hospital. He was in a room that looked like it had been decorated by a gothic novelist with a trust fund. High vaulted ceilings, walls lined with bookshelves that groaned under the weight of ancient tomes, and a large, ornate window that showed a sky the color of a bruised purple.
He was sitting on a plush velvet armchair, the fabric dark as a starless night. His body felt… different. Lighter. Younger. He looked down at his hands. They weren't his. These were the hands of a teenager—slender, pale, with long, elegant fingers. A wave of vertigo hit him as memories that weren't his own flooded his mind.
*Victor Vaelstrom. Nineteen years old. Third son of Duke Vaelstrom. A minor character in a novel I… oh.*
The memories solidified into a horrifying picture. He'd read a webnovel called *Sword of the Ascending Phoenix*. It was a generic power fantasy about a plucky young hero who defies his noble family to become the strongest swordsman. And Victor Vaelstrom? The original owner of this body?
He was a villain. A minor one. In Chapter 17, he tries to assassinate the hero out of petty jealousy and is unceremoniously cut down, his entire storyline lasting less than five pages before he's forgotten.
"Fucking hell," the new Victor whispered, his voice a smooth tenor he didn't recognize. "I died choking on a noodle to get reincarnated as a disposable villain? There has to be a cosmic law against this kind of bullshit."
He stood up, a little wobbly, and walked to a full-length mirror hanging on the wall. The face staring back was handsome, in a delicate, almost feminine way. Silver hair fell to his shoulders, framing a face with high cheekbones and startlingly violet eyes. He looked like a protagonist, not a throwaway baddie.
*Well, at least the upgrade in appearance is nice,* he thought. *But I'm scheduled to die in what, a few weeks? I need an out. I need a cheat.*
As if on cue, a translucent blue screen flickered into existence in front of his face.
[ **MILF Overgod Dominion System: Initializing...** ]
[ **Soul Analysis Complete.** ]
[ **Subject: Victor Smith (Deceased).** ]
[ **Subject: Victor Vaelstrom (New Vessel).** ]
[ **Anomaly Detected. High Emotional Intelligence + Cynical Worldview + Unconventional Sexual Preferences = Perfect Match.** ]
[ **System Binding... 10%... 50%... 100%... Binding Complete.** ]
[ **Welcome, Host.** ]
Victor stared, his mind a blank slate. He slowly raised his new, elegant hand and poked the screen. His finger passed right through it. It wasn't holographic. It was in his head.
"A system?" he said aloud, testing the reality of it all. "Of course. It had to be a system. But what the hell is a 'MILF Overgod Dominion System'?"
[ **This system allows the Host to dominate the hearts, minds, and bodies of the most powerful, beautiful, and mature women (MILFs) across all realms.** ]
[ **Through conquest, the Host will grow stronger, unlocking abilities, titles, and the path to the Throne Beyond Heaven.** ]
[ **Warning: The path of the Overgod is fraught with obsession, taboo, and danger. But the rewards... are absolute.** ]
Victor's cynical mind, honed by years of disappointment and escapism, started working. This was insane. It was absurd. It was also his only chance to not get decapitated by a wannabe hero in a few weeks.
"Alright, I'll bite," he said, pacing the room. "Show me my stats. The 'character sheet'."
[ **Host Profile** ]
[ **Name:** Victor Vaelstrom ]
[ **Age:** 19 ]
[ **Race:** Human (??) ]
[ **Level:** 1 ]
[ **Title:** [The Prodigal Son] ]
[ **Talent:** [SSS-Rank: Dominion of Desire] - *You possess a preternatural ability to perceive the deepest desires of others and subtly influence them. Your presence is an aphrodisiac to the unfulfilled heart.* ]
[ **Attributes:** ]
[ **Strength:** 8 (Average) ]
[ **Agility:** 9 (Average) ]
[ **Endurance:** 7 (Below Average) ]
[ **Intelligence:** 15 (Genius) ]
[ **Wisdom:** 14 (Genius) ]
[ **Charisma:** 18 (Supernatural) ]
[ **Special Attribute:** ]
[ **Overgod's Endowment:** 25 inches. Limitless Stamina. (*A gift to ensure the Host can always satisfy his conquests.*) ]
Victor stopped pacing and stared at the last line. He looked down at his trousers, then back at the screen. A slow, wicked grin spread across his handsome new face.
"Well, now," he murmured. "That's not a cheat. That's a goddamn biological weapon."
He could work with this. Oh yes, he could work with this. The SSS-rank talent was the real key, though. To know what people wanted, what they *truly* desired, and be able to twist that? That was better than any fireball or super sword.
"So, my first target is… who? The hero's mother? The evil queen who shows up in chapter 50?"
[ **Initial Quest Issued** ]
[ **Title:** A Mother's Love ]
[ **Objective:** Establish a profound, unbreakable, and taboo bond with your mother, the Duchess Liliana Vaelstrom. She is the key to your beginning and your most dangerous potential ally. ]
[ **Rewards:** ]
[ 1. Skill: [Yandere's Caress] - *Passive ability to soothe and placate obsessive women.* ]
[ 2. Title: [Oedipus's Heir] - *Grants significant resistance to mental and emotional attacks.* ]
[ 3. ??? ]
[ **Failure:** You will be seen as just another tool in her collection. Your journey ends before it begins. ]
The name hit him like a physical blow. Liliana Vaelstrom. The memories of his new body surged, bringing with them a conflicting mix of fear, awe, and a deep, unnatural longing.
Duchess Liliana. The second wife of the Duke. A woman whispered to be the most beautiful in the duchy, with a mysterious past and power that rivaled the archmage. The memories of the original Victor were of a distant, cold, and terrifyingly perfect mother who viewed her children with an analytical detachment, like specimens in a lab.
But the system's quest… it implied something else entirely. Something far