Inside the arena, the tension between the two young figures was suffocating. Max stood tall, his eyes calm, unreadable, and steady. His sword rested loosely in his hand, his red aura pulsing faintly. He looked at Zoltan without flinching. "What do you want?"
Zoltan's lips curved into a smile, but his eyes burned with hostility. "I hate that look in your eyes," he said, his voice deceptively light. "That calm, detached stare. That uncaring coldness. The look of disdain, as though everyone else is beneath you. It irritates me more than you can imagine."
Max's lips curled into a sneer. "Oh, that? Just admit it. You feel inferior to me, and I will understand. You do not need to search for excuses to pick a fight."
Zoltan's smile remained fixed, but his body betrayed him. The thick cords of muscle across his frame trembled as the nerves in his body twitched with suppressed anger. His fists clenched tighter, the cracks in his facade beginning to show.
