I Transmigrated Into The Secret Husband Of The Zerg Marshal - Chapter 13

Chapter 13

When Arnold was completely dressed, we stood facing each other, the air in the Instruction Room seemingly frozen solid.

Arnold was fully dressed, restored to his image as the high and mighty Marshal, but a residue of confusion and wariness still lingered in his gray-blue eyes. He stared at me, like he was solving a mathematical problem.

As for me, having just experienced a social death crisis, all I wanted was to find a place to refill my thermos.

The leather whip lay alone on the floor. I kicked it aside, cleared my throat, and decided to take the initiative to break the suffocating silence. I thought, since we were to reacquaint ourselves, there had to be an opening line. “Marshal Worm, I believe there’s a serious information gap between us.”

Arnold frowned slightly: “Information gap?”

“Correct. It means what you understand and what I understand are fundamentally different things.” I pointed to the whip on the floor. “Take this, for example. In your view, this is a ‘favor’ or ‘reward’; in my view, this is ‘domestic violence,’ it’s illegal, and you’ll be arrested and sentenced for it.”

Arnold’s expression grew more puzzled. He seemed unable to comprehend. “A male’s instruction of a female worm is only natural and right. It’s the power the law grants you.”

See? This is the generation gap. The ultimate gap across species, across star systems, and across civilizations.

I sighed and decided to change my approach. Trying to explain human rights to a feudal patriarch whose head was full of “a monarch commands his subject to die, and the subject must not refuse” was like playing the zither to an ox. I had to use a language he could understand—benefit.

“Power can be left unused, Marshal.” I adopted the professional posture of a product manager and began my indoctrination. “The core project we are currently facing is codenamed ‘Successor.’ The goal is to produce a high-quality offspring. Correct?”

Arnold was silent but nodded. This was his unquestionable bottom line.

“Good. To achieve this goal, we need optimal resource allocation and the most stable project environment.” I started adding value. “You are the project’s important carrier; I am the core gene provider. The state of the two of us directly determines the final quality of the product.”

I pointed to the spot on his post-neck gland that he had just indicated. “You asked me to lash you there, the most painful, most sensitive spot. This will bring you immense physiological pain and mental stress. Do you think a carrier who is constantly under high pressure and pain can conceive and nurture the most excellent offspring? What if the child is born with an innate E- level of mental strength and F-grade physical fitness? Would you be happy?”

Arnold’s pupils slightly contracted. I could see I’d hit his pain point.

For an Ultra A-class military female who pursues absolute perfection, giving birth to an F-grade offspring would probably be more painful than being killed.

“Negative emotions affect hormone levels, and hormone levels affect gene expression. This is science.” I started talking nonsense, not caring whether it applied to the Zerg race, pouring out all the popular science knowledge I’d read in my previous life. “What you want is an Ultra A-class cub who can inherit the glory of the Augustus family, not a good-for-nothing crybaby. Right?”

Arnold’s expression finally showed a sign of loosening. He seemed to be rapidly evaluating the rationality of my statement.

“Therefore,” I pressed my advantage, “the model of establishing a relationship through inflicting pain is completely inappropriate for our project. It’s too inefficient and the risk is too high. We need to iterate.”

“Iterate?” Arnold picked up another new word.

“It means upgrade, optimize.” I patiently explained. “We need to establish a new, more efficient mode of cooperation. Based on… well, based on mutual respect and friendly communication.”

Arnold looked at me, his eyes full of suspicion: “Male worm, respect a female worm?”

His tone was as if I’d suggested the sun was rising in the west.

“Why not?” I countered. “You are the Federal Marshal, and I am… a rare piece of trash with F-grade physical fitness. In terms of sheer force, you could crush me with one finger. Is it not reasonable for me to respect you?”

My words seemed to have delivered a huge shock. He stood there, his posture straight, yet like a statue whose foundation had been shaken.

“But, you are the male worm,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Male worms come in many types,” I responded with a hint of petulance. “Anyway, I don’t like violence. If you insist on me lashing you, I will feel stressed. What if my gene quality declines due to excessive stress, and the project fails? Will you take responsibility for that?”

I directly threw the blame for project failure onto his face.

Arnold fell silent. He looked down at me, his gaze extremely complex. There was confusion, scrutiny, wariness, and a trace of… an almost bewildered emotion that I couldn’t decipher.

He probably had never encountered a male worm as unconventional as me.

After a long time, he finally spoke, his voice somewhat husky: “Do you… not need to establish your dominant position through instruction?”

“My position is given by the gene matching degree, not by this broken whip.” I kicked the leather whip on the floor again, making a soft ‘pat’ sound. “Besides, I’m a tech guy; I’m used to solving problems with my brain, not with physical strength.”

Arnold’s gaze fell on the whip I’d despised, then moved back to my face.

“Then, what does ‘DLC’ mean?” he suddenly asked.

I nearly choked on my own spit. Good grief, he remembered that part.

“Uh… it’s an acronym.” I steeled myself and started to make up an answer. “D-L-C, Development Lifecycle Control. It means… I hope to lead the rhythm and method of our relationship development. Understand?”

Arnold looked at me with an expression that said, “You must be kidding me,” but he didn’t refute it. He just gave me a deep look, then bent down and picked up the whip from the floor.

My heart tightened, thinking he was going back on his word and preparing to lash me half to death with the whip.

But he simply coiled the whip and hung it back on the wall rack. The action was meticulous, as if he were archiving a classified document.

“Your ‘project management theory’ sounds… novel,” he turned around and looked at me, his tone resuming its usual coldness, yet somehow different. “However, Male Lord, a theory needs to be tested by practice.”

“Of course.” I immediately responded, “Practice is the sole criterion for testing truth.”

“If your ‘optimization plan’ fails to deliver the expected results,” Arnold stepped closer, and that oppressive feeling returned, “then the project will still fail.”

My heart sank. Oh right, I forgot about that. In the Zerg setting, military females are prone to neurological disorders and subsequent mental breakdown due to high-intensity combat.

I was so focused on opposing violence that I forgot to propose an alternative.

“Regarding the stability of your mental sea, that is a bug that needs fixing.” I swiftly switched back to work mode. “We need a more stable, longer-lasting solution.”

“Such as?” Arnold raised an eyebrow.

“Such as…” My brain raced. “Perhaps, gentler mental contact? Or… listening to music? Psychological counseling? If all else fails, how about I tell you about code? I guarantee, in less than five minutes, you’ll calm down, or even fall asleep.”

“…” Arnold’s mouth twitched.

“I will have the medical team research new solutions,” he clearly didn’t take my later suggestions seriously. “But before an alternative is found, in case of an emergency…”

“You still have to ask for my consent first,” I didn’t budge an inch. “I am the core resource of the project, and I have the right to choose how I provide my service. Forced sales result in an extremely poor user experience.”

We stared at each other, sparks seemingly crackling in the air.

This was a war without smoke. A head-on clash between 21st-century project management philosophy and the Zerg feudal hierarchy.

Eventually, Arnold was the first to look away.

“Fine,” he said coldly, “but you had better pray your theory is correct.”

I let out a long sigh, my back already drenched in cold sweat.

I won.

Although it was only a phase victory, at least I successfully pulled our relationship from that of master and slave back onto the normal track of Party A and Party B.

“Then, happy collaboration, Marshal Worm.”

I extended my hand to him, attempting to conclude this thrilling meeting with a handshake.

Arnold looked down at my outstretched hand, his gaze odd.

He hesitated, but finally extended his hand and shook mine.

His hand was large, dry, slightly cool, with thin calluses from years of holding a gun.

“Happy collaboration.” His voice was low, carrying a barely perceptible awkwardness.

“Alright, since we have reached a preliminary consensus,” I withdrew my hand and rubbed my practically empty stomach, “I now have an urgent need to attend to.”

“What?”

“I’m hungry,” I said with righteous indignation. “And, I refuse to eat anything green, mushy, or spirulina disguised as steak. I want real food. Meat, vegetables, carbs. If I could have a cup of hot water with goji berries, that would be even better.”

Arnold looked at me, and a clearly visible, headache-like emotion finally surfaced in his eyes.

“Chen Jiuliu,” he gritted his teeth, saying each word clearly, “you are the most troublesome male worm I have ever met.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” I grinned. “Troublesome means I’m thinking. A thinking Party B is capable of providing you with the most optimal cooperation. Isn’t that right?”

Arnold didn’t say anything more. He turned and strode towards the door.

“Follow me,” he tossed out over his shoulder without looking back.

I quickly followed him out of the Instruction Room; even the air outside felt exceptionally fresh.

Arnold walked ahead, his back still straight, but whether it was my imagination or not, the cold aura around him that kept people a thousand miles away seemed to have melted just a tiny bit.

“Arnold,” I suddenly called out to him.

“What is it?” Arnold stopped and turned his face to look at me.

“Nothing,” I smiled, walking up to walk beside him. “Let’s go.”