His aide Antonius was frozen in shock, which gave Marcus just enough time to gather his wits. For one reason or another, the body he was currently possessing had no looming authority over his own aide, which meant whatever the reason he was assigned to command, it wasn't appreciated by the soldier that heard the news.
Marcus would have preferred to have a bit of time to explore that detail, but it was at that exact moment, a weird sentence popped in his line of sight.
[Army Management System is being activated…]
[… activation failed. Warning, loyalty low! Risk of mutiny.]
A frown appeared on his face even as he looked his aide in the eye, bringing the fury that kept him comfortably on top of his little band of murderers for decades.
And from the way Antonius flinched, it seemed to be working. It wasn't the same expression of sheer fear Marcus was used to seeing whenever he gave a subordinate the look, but he was also aware that wherever he was, he didn't have a reputation to enhance the weight of his gaze.
However, he had a bigger problem. He didn't know what the sudden notification he received, popping like an unwanted message, but directly on his sight rather than his phone screen, and more importantly, he didn't know whether he could trust that. Unfortunately, the limited information he could observe supported the information provided by the weird notifications.
It meant he needed to act as quickly as possible, before someone decided to commit on the job. Maybe it was what happened to the previous owner of the body, Marcus thought absentmindedly, that someone decided to get rid of him.
"Answer me, soldier," Marcus spoke once more, his tone sharp. "Is the discipline of my army so lax that my soldier acts like bandits, or are you the only incompetent soldier under my command?" He was pushing Antonius intentionally, betting on the fact that a soldier wouldn't be cold-blooded enough to kill his own commander in his own tent, at least not when he had no chance to hide the evidence.
He needed to establish discipline.
"Speak, soldier," Marcus ordered again. He didn't shout. On the contrary, he spoke softly and calmly, barely above a whisper. It was an underrated power move, forcing the opponent to stretch his attention to the limit just to catch what he was saying. Antonius looked flabbergasted, no doubt trying to understand the sudden change of pace he was struggling against.
"Sorry, sir," he finally started, going with the soldier instincts. When in doubt, apologize.
"Drop down! And give me fifty push-ups," Marcus ordered immediately, his voice marginally louder, which was enough to make him flinch.
Antonius, surprised by the sudden change, dropped down and started counting. It was convenient, because Marcus suddenly received a disjointed rush of memories, barely more substantial than a fleeting dream. Memories that didn't belong to him, because he had never gone to a military academy in a medieval world. The memories moved quickly, giving flashes of a different life, as the owner of the body struggled to go through the military exercises while a sergeant shouted at him repeatedly…
He took a breath, trying to focus on the present. Things were complicated enough without random memories flooding his brain.
"Enough," he called when his aide reached forty-five, just a small hint of mercy. After all, push-ups were hard, especially when wearing armor.
"Thank you, sir," Antonius said in a perfunctory manner, which didn't surprise Marcus. After all, a set of push-ups weren't magic, and wouldn't suddenly trigger undying respect. But Antonius looked confused at his sudden change of personality, which was the best Marcus could hope at the moment.
"You can leave," he ordered, and after saluting, Antonius left, leaving Marcus alone with his thoughts.
"I'm in so much trouble," he murmured as he collapsed on the chair, burying his face in his hands in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. If his men were there, they would have been shocked, and no doubt they would have used the story whenever they got drunk.
But he wasn't with them.
That was the problem.
He was in serious trouble, the likes he hadn't experienced before, not when the undercover police agents broke two-thirds of his operation in one night, not when a rival cartel gunned him in ambush, leaving him in a coma for two months, dodging death, and another four months in a rundown safehouse while he planned revenge.
Finding yourself in another body, in the past, and maybe even in a different world should have been his biggest problem. Unfortunately, neither the existential crisis it should have triggered, nor the realization that he had just lost everything he had worked for in the blink of an eye along with all his family and friends was able to take the first place, not when he was looking for a likely military mutiny.
And just to make things even more fun, he had no memories. He didn't know his exact rank, he didn't know who was his second in command, he didn't even know the rules of the military he found himself in. He had never faced such a complicated challenge.
But he was Marcus the Bloody, a street rat that grew up to be the most dangerous man in the country, a man that everyone feared, respected, and admired at the same time… He could certainly do better than a wet-behind-the-ears incompetent commander —who likely received his job through circumstances of birth rather than ability if the disrespect his soldiers were showing was any indicator.
Just as he was about to grab a map, a bunch of angry cries reached his ear. The kind that was more serious than just a bunch of drunk guys fighting about a cheating girlfriend…
[Mutiny imminent. Please pay attention…]
The notification didn't surprise him —well, more than any random imaginary word that popped into his line of sight, at least. He didn't have more time to waste on planning.
It was time to act.