Please Stop Fighting

"You've arrived."

The transport ship landed on an ice shelf as hard as rock, and the biting wind howled into the warm compartment, mingling with the smell of leather and ozone. As the Imperial Marines seated on two opposing rows of metal benches raised their heads to look outside, a frozen world engulfed in heavy snow leapt into view.

Just as they had done during countless airborne deployments, two soldiers hit the ground every second. From the moment the transport completed its drop to the moment it turned around and departed, the entire landing was as clean and precise as something out of a textbook.

At the same time, two other transport ships rose away on icy-blue exhaust flames, leaving behind a full company of heavily armed Imperial Marines. They belonged to the Nova Squadron Fourth Airborne Division, an obscure and mysterious unit in the Terran Empire's order of battle. Every known mission of theirs had been connected to the Empire's military expeditions beyond the Koprulu Sector.

"Why the hell did we have to come to this godforsaken frozen dump?" Sergeant Mikhail said. "I've been to the battlefield on Aiur. That place was nothing but tropical jungles."

"The briefing said this planet's called Niflheim—the realm of the dead in Norse mythology, a cold, dark world shrouded in thick fog. Damn, that's the second most unlucky name I've heard in years," another soldier said. "Couldn't they have picked somewhere better to settle down? It's freezing here. How's anyone supposed to live in this place?"

Though the Protoss also favored breathtaking natural environments, their reasons for remaining in a place went beyond expanding their living space. Even today, the Daelaam, heirs to the Protoss Empire, continued to establish Colonies beyond Shakuras.

"You can't grow food here!" one genius from the agricultural world