A week later, at the edge of human territory, Tarim Planet.
In a spacious, brightly lit room, five humans and five Protoss sat facing each other. As the top figures of their respective races, they should have maintained their pride and composure. Yet now, they argued like two gangs of street thugs.
"Have us go into battle first? Get this straight—we're cooperating. Cooperating. Cooperating. I'll say something important three times: since this is cooperation, what sense does it make for us to go first? Even if we're forming a vanguard legion, it should be jointly composed of humans and Protoss, under joint command. You want us to take the lead while you use us as cannon fodder!" A middle-aged man with the rank of lieutenant general slammed his palm on the table indignantly.
The Protoss opposite him was not as agitated, but cold light flashed in his eyes. His three fingers were tightly clenched, showing that he was equally far from calm. "They're merely a ragtag group of Zerg in the Puslan Starfield. What right do such insects have to make us Protoss act? Your human population is several times ours. Isn't it only reasonable to leave this sort of matter to you as a division of labor?"
"Bullshit! What do you mean, leave the ragtag Zerg to us? So what if we have more people? Does having more people mean we should do all the grunt work? I think your Protoss have no sincerity at all in these negotiations. You even have the Hell Clan as your vassals. When it comes to population, we humans need at least twenty years to raise an adult, while your Hell demons can be mass-produced. Having them handle this grunt work would make far more sense!"
"Human lieutenant general, watch your words. We