The grand hall was silent as Adams and the Ashura king locked gazes, each refusing to yield even an ounce of dominance. Their unbroken eye contact cast an almost tangible weight across the hall, causing the gathered Ashuras to shift uneasily. The faintest flickers of expressions danced over their red-skinned faces—some were apprehensive, others wore faint sneers, and a few, particularly the generals, maintained stoic, unwavering masks. Adams, however, wore a small, knowing smile, his calm presence like a blade concealed in silk.
Then, the heavy tension broke as the palace doors swung open, and a low-ranking Ashura guard rushed in. He was breathless, his chest heaving as he fought to maintain composure. His sudden appearance in the midst of the silent stare-down earned him glares from the generals seated closest to the throne, their eyes narrowed in reprimand. One of the higher-ranked Ashuras clicked his tongue in annoyance, his lips curling in irritation at the interruption.
