I Transmigrated Into The Secret Husband Of The Zerg Marshal - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Product Manager

I, Chen Jiuliu, a fresh employee ready to start a fight with my “Client A,” sat up straight, clutching my stainless steel thermos, adopting the standard battle posture I used in my previous life when arguing over requirements with a product manager.

Facing me was the bowl of outrageously green sludge, still bubbling with ominous little pops.

It was on the table, and I was on the rug. We were both challenging the limits: one challenging humanity’s visual threshold, the other challenging an alien’s cognitive threshold.

Time ticked by, and the room was so quiet I could hear my heart beating like a drum.

I felt a little weak.

That barrage of project management jargon I’d unleashed was entirely fueled by the pent-up resentment of a cornered office worker.

Now the anger had dissipated, and the after-effects were kicking in.

What if Arnold wasn’t the type to play by the rules? What if he thought I, the core resource, was being too mouthy and just decided to physically silence me? There wasn’t even a labor bureau in this place. Where would I go to complain about being wronged?

“Grrrrumble…”

My stomach rumbled at the most inopportune moment.

I glanced down at the green goo, then up at the unmoving metal door. Sadness welled up. I unscrewed the thermos and chugged another huge gulp of goji water.

Dying of hunger is a small matter; losing integrity is a huge one. Even if I, Chen Jiuliu, were to starve to death and jump out of here—oh wait, there’s no jumping—I would never eat a single bite of food that looks like a bug!

Just as I was drawing comfort from my spiritual victory method, the door hissed open.

I tensed up, my back instantly ramrod straight, my grip on the thermos tightening.

The one who entered was, as expected, Arnold.

He had changed out of his cold military uniform and was wearing a set of dark gray casual clothes. The fabric looked soft, giving him less of the soldier’s sharpness but adding a sense of domestic… oppression.

Yes, oppression. Because his face and physique hadn’t changed. He was like a peerless weapon sheathed. You knew it wasn’t drawn, but its mere presence was enough to freeze the surrounding air.

He didn’t speak immediately. He first glanced at the green goo on the table, swept past my body, and finally paused on the gleaming stainless steel thermos in my hands.

There was no anger or impatience in his eyes, but rather a kind of curiosity, like someone observing an unusually behaving lab mouse.

“The medical team told me,” he finally spoke, his voice flat and betraying no emotion, “that you have new insights on the ‘project’.”

Here we go.

I cleared my throat, solemnly placed the thermos beside me, and rested my hands on my knees, trying hard to look like a professional Party B representative.

“Yes, Great Insect Marshal,” I looked up at him, determined not to lose the battle of wills. “I believe that to ensure the project’s ultimate success, we need to conduct a review and optimization of the current execution plan.”

“Review? Optimization?” Arnold repeated the two words. The corner of his mouth seemed to hook up, so fast it might have been my imagination. “Elaborate.”

“Firstly, regarding the core resource—myself—my basic welfare issue,” I pointed at the anti-human green goo on the table. “I call this the ‘alpha version with terrible user experience.’ It may be complete in function, meaning nutritional content, but it’s disastrous in terms of user interface and emotional design.”

Arnold raised an eyebrow, a slight flicker of interest catching in his eye at my rhetoric. He didn’t sit down, standing over me as if listening to a joke.

I pushed on despite the pressure: “A Male Insect who faces this kind of food for the long term will inevitably descend into depression, anxiety, and even develop a defiant mentality. This will directly lead to endocrine imbalance, thereby affecting the vitality and quality of the genes. Great Insect Marshal, you’ve invested a huge cost; surely you don’t want to end up with a substandard product whose quality fails due to ‘bad catering’? That doesn’t adhere to the principle of cost-effectiveness.”

I finished in one breath, feeling like a negotiating genius. I had successfully elevated the humble plea of “I don’t want to eat pig slop” to the strategic height of “impacting the intelligence of the Federation heir.”

Arnold was silent.

He stared at me as if performing some high-intensity computational analysis, attempting to deconstruct my underlying logic.

After a long moment, he slowly spoke: “You are suggesting that the form of the food affects your gene quality?”

“Absolutely!” I said decisively. “Mood determines everything! Happy Worker, Better Product! Oh, that’s local slang where I come from. It means employees work better when they’re in a good mood.”

“Somewhat reasonable.”

…He just conceded that easily.

The long speech I had prepared about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and the importance of user experience was instantly blocked in my throat, almost giving me a tongue cramp.

He didn’t give me time to react, asking next, “What else?”

“Ah? Oh, right, more!” I quickly recollected myself and continued my “status report.” “Second, information asymmetry. As a core participant in the project, I am currently completely ignorant of the overall plan, time nodes, and key steps. This is like telling a programmer to write a button without telling him whether that button is for launching a nuclear missile or ordering takeout. This causes enormous insecurity and confusion, which is also detrimental to mental and physical health.”

I paused, carefully bringing up my core demand: “Therefore, I need a detailed… well, a project manual. It doesn’t need to involve classified information, just enough for me to know what I’ll be going through next and how I need to cooperate.”

“Project manual?” Arnold’s gaze became slightly inscrutable. “The final project is to ensure the Augustus family produces a super elite offspring. Is that goal clear enough?”

“…It’s clear, but what about the process?”

I pushed back cautiously. “For instance, this physical conditioning: to what extent? How long will it take? And after the conditioning? Will it be… natural conception or artificial insemination? I should at least have the right to know, shouldn’t I?”

When I asked the last question, I felt like my skin was thick enough to be bulletproof.

Arnold looked at me with the expression of someone watching a fool who didn’t know his place.

He suddenly took a step closer to me.

The large shadow enveloped me again, and the cold, crisp scent of him rushed over.

He bent slightly, leaning in close to my ear, and said in a very low whisper: “My Male Lord, you seem to have misunderstood one thing. The Zerg only have one method of reproduction.”

The warm breath on my ear made me tingle, and I froze completely.

“As for your other questions,” he straightened up, his voice returning to its usual coldness, “The medical team will regularly update you on your physical data and the next stage of the conditioning plan. That will be your ‘project manual.’ You do not need to know the more long-term details.”

His words, when translated, meant: I’ll give you a little information, but don’t overstep your boundaries.

My heart sank. I knew I couldn’t push this topic further. Insisting now wouldn’t be about setting requirements; it would be courting disaster.

“Final agenda item,” I decided to quit while I was ahead and brought up the most practical demand. “I need a window. Or, a high-tech electronic screen that can simulate the view outside. Being in a confined environment for a long period is detrimental to a Male Insect’s psychological well-being. There’s scientific basis for this.”

“…” This time, Arnold was silent for a much longer period.

He turned and slowly walked to the other side of the room, his back to me.

I couldn’t see his expression, only his tall, mountain-like silhouette.

“I have noted your requests,” he stated, a non-committal remark.

Then, just like that, he left.

The door closed again, and I was left alone with the bowl of green goo.

Did I… succeed in the negotiation, or fail?

I was a bit dazed, slumping onto the rug, my mind a mess. He neither fully agreed nor fully refused. What was this? This was the client’s ultimate form of string-pulling.

I angrily picked up the thermos, about to take another sip, when the door opened again.

This time, it wasn’t Arnold, but the white coat I had previously baffled. He pushed the meal cart in, his face still carrying a trace of the previous bewilderment.

Without a word, he walked to the table, picked up the bowl of vibrant green paste, and walked away.

Then, he took a new tray from the cart and placed it in front of me.

On the tray was a… very normal-looking dinner.

A piece of tempting, perfectly browned steak, even with grill marks, a perfectly piped mound of mashed potatoes, and a garnish of two bright red cherry tomatoes and a spear of vibrant green broccoli.

The presentation was worthy of a three-star Michelin restaurant.

My saliva instantly began to flow, and my stomach rumbled ten times louder than before.

“Your Excellency Chen Jiuliu,” the white coat’s voice was still emotionless, but it seemed to hold a different connotation, “This is a re-customized nutritional meal based on your ‘user experience optimization’ request. Please enjoy your meal.”

With that, he pushed the empty cart and bowed out.

I stared blankly at the steak in front of me, then at the closed door.

Holy cow, he actually optimized it for me?

His efficiency was miles better than that programmer colleague I had to harass eight hundred times just to fix one bug in my previous life!

I picked up the knife and fork on the table, and with a sense of sacred purpose, I carefully cut a small piece of the “steak.”

First, the feel… it was strange. It was too soft; there was no resistance of cutting through meat fibers.

I speared the small piece, brought it to my nose, and sniffed.

There was no meat aroma, only a peculiar smell of… spirulina mixed with soy products.

My heart sank, a premonition of doom settling in.

I closed my eyes, embracing the feeling of heroic sacrifice, and put the piece of “steak” into my mouth.

The taste was indescribable.

It had the shape of steak, the texture of mashed potatoes, and… the soul of that green goo.

I chewed expressionlessly, feeling my taste buds and worldview shattering into powder together.

Arnold, you are incredible.

You perfectly embodied the phrase, “We have fully respected your opinion, but we firmly refuse to make any real changes.”

I silently swallowed the mouthful, then picked up my knife and fork, and expressionlessly began to cut into the “mashed potatoes.”

Fine.

No window, limited right to information, and the food only got a new skin.

But no matter what, this was the first battle that I, Chen Jiuliu, had won with my brain since arriving in this cursed place.

Even if the victory felt a little bittersweet and ridiculous.

But, this is the start.

While eating the spirulina disguised as a gourmet meal, I silently cheered myself on.

Product Manager Chen Jiuliu, reporting for duty.

Arnold, my confidential husband and Client A, we’ll see about this!