I Transmigrated Into The Secret Husband Of The Zerg Marshal - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The moment his palm covered my abdomen, the wire in my brain labeled “Reason” snapped with a sharp crack, completely severing.

My body reacted faster than my brain. I bolted, springing away like a fish thrown onto the bank, tearing free from his hand, scrambling and rolling to the corner, my back slamming hard against the metal wall.

“Don’t touch me!” I shouted, my voice so hoarse it didn’t sound like my own.

Arnold didn’t pursue me. He simply slowly retracted his hand, braced himself on the floor, and stood up. Silhouetted against the light, his tall figure cast a shadow that completely enveloped me.

He slowly and deliberately pulled on his black leather gloves and straightened his military uniform, which was still immaculate, save for a few creases. His movements were unhurried, as if the insect who had just experienced a mental breakdown and trashed the room was not him.

The calmer he was, the more terrified I became.

It’s over.

I personally shortened the project cycle, personally breached the technical wall, and now the last adaptation period has been cancelled.

I, an E-level weakling, am about to be instantly deployed by a Marshal who can tear mechs apart, treated as a single-use genetic package.

I looked at him, and he looked at me.

The air was filled with a deathly silence, and a strange scent… of green grapes mixed with gunpowder.

My brain was frantically rebooting on the brink of a system crash.

Resist?

Can’t win.

Plead?

He’s not the kind of A-side that goes soft.

Run?

I don’t even know where the door is.

It’s over.

This is a deadlock.

All solutions have been rejected. The project is about to be forcibly launched, and I, the core module, won’t even get a final debug opportunity.

In my despair, that cursed corporate drone brain of mine, honed by countless clients and product managers, somehow struggled out of the garbled mess with a bizarre, buggy idea.

Wait.

If I can’t resist, then… why not join him?

No, that’s not right. Not join. It’s… lead him!

Since this baby-making project is already a done deal, why can’t I, as the core resource provider, propose a few small, personalized requirements for the method of delivery?

The thought split my chaotic mind like lightning.

I took a deep breath, suppressing the tremor in my throat, forcing myself to stand up from the corner. My legs were still weak, so I had to brace myself against the wall, trying my best not to look like a sacrificial lamb.

“Alright,” I began, my voice much steadier than expected. “I understand, Marshal. This is my… duty.”

A trace of imperceptible surprise flashed in Arnold’s grey-blue eyes.

—He clearly hadn’t expected me to “accept my fate” so quickly.

I looked at him, forcing out that professional smile I used most often when dealing with clients in my old world—the one that mixed “I understand your difficulties” with “but you have to listen to me on this.”

“Since the plan has been moved up,” I paused, launching the crazy, self-rescue plan that I’d decided to adopt just moments after it appeared in my head. “Then, as your Male, I must confirm both of our preferences.”

“Both of our preferences?” Arnold repeated my words, the initial surprise in his eyes quickly replaced by something deeper and more complex.

It was an intense scrutiny, an examination, mixed with a hint of… a nearly solemn deliberation that I couldn’t decipher.

His gaze made my blood run cold, but the show had started, and I, the B-side, couldn’t just drop the curtain halfway through. Gritting my teeth, I pushed the self-rescue plan forward.

“Yes,” I moved half a step closer to appear more sincere. “To ensure the quality of project delivery and the smoothness of subsequent cooperation, I believe it is necessary to conduct a needs assessment for the core preferences of the end user.”

I spoke righteously, as if I wasn’t discussing having a child, but finalizing the details of a hundred-million-dollar contract.

“For example,” I racked my brain, trying to package my ridiculous idea with the most professional terminology. “In the procreation process, do you prefer a proactive guidance model or a passive acceptance model? Do you favor a streamlined efficiency mode or an immersive emotional experience? These different interaction methods could profoundly affect genetic vitality and the eventual personality development of the offspring. We must approach this scientifically and rigorously.”

I was spouting nonsense, mixing biology, psychology, and project management into a hot mess, with one core idea: We can have the child, but how we have it must be my process.

“…” Arnold stared at me, clenching his jaw. My God, the air pressure around him was dropping lower and lower, and he raised his arm towards me.

I resignedly closed my eyes, assuming he would think I was insane or just slap me against the wall.

But Arnold didn’t.

He just looked at me in silence, his expression shifting several times on his handsome face. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Against the light, I couldn’t see the emotions churning in his eyes, but I felt the cold, sharp aura around him become more… subtle and dangerous.

Like a volcano about to erupt, momentarily withdrawing all smoke and fire, but with molten lava rolling beneath the surface.

My heart hammered. I was perplexed by his reaction: did he understand, or not?

Did he think I was a B-side with great initiative, or a B-side daring to propose demands while facing death?

…

Just as I was about to crack and switch back to my timid B-side mode, Arnold Augustus actually nodded. “I understand,” he said.

Me: ?

…

You understand what, exactly?

He gave me no chance to ask. He turned and walked toward a door deep in the room, a discreet panel that blended seamlessly with the wall, which I hadn’t noticed before. His stride was steady, even carrying a certain ritualistic solemnity, as if he were off to execute a sacred mission.

I stood there stunned, watching his figure disappear behind the door.

I couldn’t stop replaying the scene in my head. Did I just say something earth-shattering? That’s it? He so easily accepted the process optimization suggestion from me, the bootleg project manager?

Something is wrong.

This is fundamentally wrong.

It doesn’t fit the basic character of an overbearing, domineering Client! Based on my experience in my past life, he should be sneering now, saying, “Your idea is good, but the company has its rules.” Or more directly: “Are you trying to teach me how to do my job?”

But! Now!

He left without a word. Did he go to hand-write the needs assessment? Or to prepare… props that fit his preference?

A powerful curiosity overcame my fear. Like a large rat whose heartstrings were being toyed with by a cat’s paw, I plastered myself against the wall and, as if possessed, tiptoed after him.

The hidden door hadn’t closed properly; it was ajar. I peered through the crack.

The corridor was long and deep, dimly lit. Arnold’s back was at the end of the hall, where he turned right and opened another door.

I held my breath, carefully crossed the corridor, and crept up to that door.

Then, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

What… what is this place?

Extreme Boss erotica brought to life?

This room before me was an unimaginable spectacle, something my meager imagination couldn’t define.

The room was vast, with deep red, uneven walls that had a velvet texture, absorbing most of the light, making it exceptionally dim.

In the center of the room was a platform, larger than my bedroom bed, covered in some kind of black leather.

Several metal chains of unknown material hung from the ceiling, gleaming coldly in the faint light.

And along the wall, an entire section was hung with all sorts of… tools.

Whips of varying lengths and materials, from slender rawhide whips to nine-tailed whips with metal barbs, hung neatly in a row. Beside them were various models of gags, handcuffs, and shackles, sparkling with a metallic sheen.

And other, precisely structured instruments of dubious purpose—what I could only call torture devices—whose shapes alone made my butt clench, and whose names I couldn’t even guess.

My brain—that highly logical programmer’s brain with an IQ of 150—was completely formatted the instant it saw everything in the room.

My palm unconsciously rested on the wall outside the door.

I think I pressed against a sign. I pulled my hand away and saw something. The built-in translation plugin in this body provided the meaning. I nearly fainted.

What did I see?

Discipline Room?

Is this some secret military interrogation chamber? But the decor is far too… unconventional!

As I stood there, jaw agape in shock, I saw Arnold walk up to that wall, extend his clearly-defined hand, and take down the thinnest, most innocuous-looking black leather whip from a hook.

He held the whip, lightly testing its weight in his palm, and it made a soft smack.

The sound wasn’t loud, but it exploded in my ears like thunder.

The blood in my entire body instantly ran cold.

All that corporate jargon I’d just used—proactive guidance model, passive acceptance model, immersive emotional experience… He wouldn’t possibly think that…

My throat went dry, my legs turned to jelly, and I was seconds away from collapsing onto the floor.

Could corporate slang and Insectoid slang have achieved inter-species communication on some bizarre level?!

Just then, Arnold turned around and saw me in the doorway, dumbfounded and ashen-faced.

He seemed entirely unsurprised. He simply raised the whip in his hand. He looked at me, his expression calm, even with a hint of… a matter-of-fact inquiry.

“What are you doing?!” I finally found my voice and quickly scrambled back.

“?” Arnold was momentarily taken aback by my drastic reaction. He frowned slightly, seemingly unable to comprehend my terror.

Arnold weighed the leather whip in his hand, his tone more confused than before, and countered my question:

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Come.”