I Transmigrated Into The Secret Husband Of The Zerg Marshal - Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Workplace Dilemma

The two words, “Come on,” were feather-light, yet they felt like two mountains pressing down on me. One on my spirit, the other on my body.

I was frozen in place, watching helplessly as Arnold walked toward me. One step, then another.

He walked very slowly. His military boots made no sound on the floor, but the invisible sense of pressure was like the rising tide, inch by inch engulfing my nose and mouth, making it impossible to breathe.

My mind was a blank slate, focused only on the slender black leather whip in his hand. In the dim light, it looked like a venomous snake poised to strike, flicking its deadly tongue.

I’m done for. I thought. It must be that my “company slave slang” and his Zerg-f**king “Zerg slang” somehow achieved a seamless, inter-species connection on some bizarre level I couldn’t comprehend.

Not only did I move the project deadline forward, but I also casually unlocked a hell-level paid DLC for myself (here, used roughly as ‘safe word’).

I’m dead. I closed my eyes, waiting for the tearing pain to descend.

…

The fiery pain I imagined never came. All I heard was a slight rustle of fabric by my ear.

My eyelashes fluttered, and I secretly peeked through the gaps between my fingers.

And then, I witnessed a scene I would never be able to understand for the rest of my life.

Arnold, the Federal Marshal who held military power, could tear apart mechs with his bare hands, and who had just about scrambled my spiritual sea—in front of me, in front of a weakling with F-class physique and E- mental power—slowly, knelt on one knee.

His tall body folded down, his straight back bowed slightly, forming a humble arc.

He held the black leather whip aloft with both hands, presenting it to me as if offering a supreme scepter.

The dim light spilled from above his head, casting a small shadow on his thick black eyelashes. His gray-blue eyes looked up at me, devoid of the previous mockery and oppression, holding only a look of… near-piety, absolute submission. “My Highness, please bestow the Award.”

His voice was low and steady, but every word clearly hammered into my near-crashed brain.

Me: “…”

My freshly formatted brain was instantly flooded by ten thousand stampeding grass-mud horses (a Chinese internet meme for an expletive), trampling my system drive into a mess.

Award… Award? I stumbled back two steps, my face a mask of disbelief as I stared at him. Buddy, what did you just say?

Am I hearing things?

What kind of feudal court drama is this? Is Grand Eunuch Li Lianying greeting Empress Dowager Cixi?

Wake up, the Qing Dynasty has been dead for over a hundred years!

My mouth hung open. I looked at him, then at the whip in his hand, and felt like I was completely splitting apart. My brain raced, desperately trying to find a logical explanation for this absurd scene.

Could it be… could it be that in this world, the word “Award” means what I think it means?

Which is… to give someone a beating?

I looked at his face, handsome enough to infuriate gods and men, and his earnest, sincere eyes. A more terrifying thought surfaced.

That bullshit theory of mine about proactive guidance and immersive experience… he doesn’t actually think I’m into this kind of thing, does he? F**k me. A shudder ran through my body. I felt like my persona had already been warped into the Mariana Trench without my knowledge.

Seeing my prolonged inaction, a hint of confusion flickered in Arnold’s eyes, but he maintained the posture, the hand holding the whip steady as a statue.

What could I do? Did I dare refuse? If I said, ‘Hey man, you misunderstood, I actually wanted to discuss our pure revolutionary friendship,’ would he think I was humiliating him, and twist me into a pretzel right here?

When under someone’s roof, one must bow one’s head.

I, an excellent ‘Party B’ who knows when to bend and when to stretch, after a fierce 0.1-second internal struggle, reached out with a trembling hand and grasped the other end of the leather whip.

It was heavy in my hand, the leather texture fine yet dangerous.

The moment I grasped the whip, Arnold’s eyes instantly darkened. It was the look of “I knew it,” of finality settling.

… No, buddy, what the hell did you ‘know’ again!

I was roaring internally, but on my face, I could only manage a smile that looked worse than a sob.

Then, something even more earth-shattering happened.

Marshal Arnold Augustus, upon confirming that I had accepted the tool of the “Award,” released his hand and slowly stood up.

But he didn’t look at me. Instead, he turned around, presenting his back to me.

He raised his long, defined hand and, one by one, unbuttoned his military jacket. The movement carried not a hint of lust, but felt more like the execution of some sacred, inviolable ritual. The dark grey military coat was casually dropped to the ground. Next was the white shirt underneath.

Buttons popped open, revealing his broad, solid back.

It wasn’t the superficial muscle gained in a gym, but the back of a true warrior, forged through relentless training.

Every inch of muscle was powerful, the lines fluid and beautiful. The shape of his shoulder blades resembled a pair of folded hawk wings, full of coiled tension. Scars of varying depths crisscrossed his skin—the silent medals of a military officer.

He unbuttoned the shirt, letting it slide off.

Now, Arnold stood bare-chested, slightly bowing his head before me, completely exposing his unguarded, artistic masterpiece of a back to me.

The air was dead silent.

I stood before him, gripping that whip—an absolute weapon—my palms slick with cold sweat.

I looked at his broad back, at the gracefully curved nape of his neck, and only one thought remained in my mind:

What the f**k do I do now?! Online, and it’s urgent!

Party A wants me to whip him. Should I whip him or not?

If I do, will I be immediately executed for assaulting a Federal Marshal? If I don’t, will I be seen as defying Party A’s demands, causing the project to collapse, and then be packaged up for humane destruction?

In my twenty-plus years of life, this is the first time I’ve faced such a complex and deadly workplace dilemma!