The crowd roared for the dark mage-- some out of reject for beating an elderly last round, others for his victory against her nonetheless. However, in all honesty his last fight ended on a short note. Even if he were proud of it, the masses wouldn't allow him room to brag. To the crowds all he'd basically done was chase down an old lady, break her ankle, and then get cut off by her hasty retreat fro the battle. The frustrating part of all of this was that it was way more than those short events for him. Few would know, as none could see the aura surrounding that murderous priestess like he did. Maybe some could see that she was packing heavy guns and just didn't manage to unveil them in time, but those were a minority and he knew it. Everyone here just lusted their eyes to more brutal pairings. Eyed the contestants like gladiators Erebus' bet; choosing to see things without paying attention to the greater picture.

Sometimes Erebus didn't care to think about it so often, but tournaments were really just a way for the everyday person to watch people get hurt. They weren't always about seeing a warrior's testament chanced against another. Violence appealed to the masses-- the development of the fighter did not. From the humble store clerk, to the desperate housewife; all they wanted to see was someone drop someone else and place bets on who could do it faster. Every kind of human was the same-- they were all just as fucked in the head, they enjoyed watching him the beatings as much as he enjoyed enacting them.

They could all be entertained by prejudice battles it seemed-- but they were all fake in the same way. Fighters' were forced to carry the pressure of losing or winning, even if the crowds rejected them for things out of their hands. Like facing an old woman, not even taking into account that the woman might've been dangerous. Such was a double standard, but disregarding all that... The boy had known the woman's strength and 'did' hold her to a pretty reasonable pedestal whilst in battle, regardless if he made her succumb or not. She was to be respected, much like anyone in the ring.

Perhaps that's why Erebus at first held caution to approaching the little old lady. A serial killer that he'd known all too well about because of his time in the guild with her, even if no one else in that arena did. And... just maybe... That's why he carried caution of the lumbering giant they called Maarschalk as he took up the steps. After the boy had finished his match with Yumi previously, he saw the highlights of Atlas's defeat which troubled him. He was finished within the first few minutes. Atlas's even looked as capable, if not more then Erebus himself...

That kind of talent was nothing to scoff at, the skill they referred to as Maarschalk's that is.

Yeah, he deserved passage into Round 2-- and he surely would've gotten a following of fans by now. Erebus needed to affirm though, that he was not like Atlas, and that Maarschalk could not defeat him as easy or... At all entirely for that matter. That the onyx-haired boy was not just better than Atlas, but also better than his dominater all together. It was just that simple-- keep making them see 'til they all acknowledge you. Falling short of self-belief and confidence spelled turmoil for a fighter after all. Still... Maarschalk was not to be underestimated in any kind of scenario; especially one of martial arts where Maars's hulking size left Erebus's looking like the stray dog in a dog fight. Even if such comparison weren't the case though; Erebus entered the stage not with a smirk as per usually seen anywhere else. But with a serious glint in his eyes. A hungry energy, one that a champion rode into battle with and never casted out.

To Maarschalk, Erebus was named Strategist here today. A name not picked out for him, but gladly accepted by hi superiors. In all fairness, the onyx-haired boy deemed it too much for him. But names alone, it was not his choice and he carried it out of direct orders. This was his identity henceforth in the world, so that would be his calling should he ever be requested by another. Erebus wore a plain attire and dark shoes. His sweater acting as a soft pillow, though it wouldn't cushion much against a hulk like this. The boy's pants were held up by a belt and would not slow his pace down in the slightest. His hair, as per usual sat upwards on the side, though he kind of rocked the bed-head style. Most would even say it fit his appearance. Maarschalk on the other hand was a huge man. A foot taller and born for the ring. If the times were still olden, most would've revered him a God of the arena. The darker haired fighter wouldn't be privy to underestimate the character. Especially since they came from different weight classes.

"Mm... I bet you had growing pains as a kid Maarschalk, whatever the case, I'll bring you down to size." The fighter would jest, he moved little to none upon entering the ring. He spoke loud enough that if Maars had entered the same time as him, the enemy would hear it loud and clear as a taunt. But that was merely to gain further edge over Maarschalk's psyche. The truth though, even if that was something he intended to do, he did not speak these words in insult, rather, as a necessary objective for his own self. It was easier to act on such a situation once it had left man's lips and tongue. The idea was that with the words escaping him, so did any doubt locked in the pits of his being. A common trick used when in the face of danger for the arrogant types like Erebus.

The boy found himself thinking...

Maarschalk was probably a wise man, maybe even a 'good' man. Erebus however-- was on the opposite sides of the pendulum. Yes, good looking sure, but as toxic as the devil himself. Growing obsessions in a violent way, sights and examples of evil were all swirling in the maelstrom that was his head. A storm of atrocity brewed behind the GH member's eyes at all moments. If given the chance, Erebus was not one to how mercy. He'd not falter in his movements. Was Maarschalk the same? Erebus gritted his teeth upon coming to the thought. He wasn't the type to be thrown around, and denied it a possibility. The shorter fighter popped his knuckles and spit to the side. Stretching his legs. Anger seeming to tunnel into him from no where. His hands clenched, he was in control, but he would be much more violent the start of this round compared to the start of his first.

Foolish as it may sound... Erebus fights not for the trivial things others may think he does. He fights for underlying ulterior motifs, welling aggravations spawned from within himself and his lack of abilities, in his inability to use magic more precisely. Fame was just the cornerstone for his joining this tournament-- inner self loathing is the true reason he'll press on through it. He needed to prove to himself victory was a possibility against magi. There would be no giving up from his side today, no backing out. The only acceptance Erebus would take was being completely subdued. Hatred, determination, and longing. All fuels to a fire much greater than one such as Maarschalk himself. This was going to be a long ride... Erebus would ensure that.

 

It seemed the giant thought him an ill fighter, who wanted to stay back and play catch-up the whole time. Sadly, and maybe foolishly, that was far from the truth. Erebus liked to swing, and he even more like to land hits. So no; he'd make that ground fast, and Marschalk would know it.

As stated, it was a dubious though, a wrong case analysis; to figure Strategist something like a coward. All he had in this world was his boldness; his will to tread into scary deep waters. Regardless if Maarschalk was bigger or smaller, those were just qualities to the character, bonuses or leverage. No-- Erebus was going to redefine what combat was like here today. He'd teach Maars to enjoy combat, or despise it. One or the other; perhaps neither positively or negatively. To understand another's resolve was true when two enemies clashed. But to underestimate one warrior's reslove was a spit on their grave. No more-- would he be belittled by stronger forces. No more would people see him as small. He might be shorter, and less bulky. But his hateful spirit would one day make coliseums like this tremble...

Maarschalk would soon find out what facing a decent competitor was like. As shown in the last fight, Erebus did not play the counter productive at all and had come out on top, in fact he would be smarter maybe to do so this tie. But such a thing spoke opposite of his character. He was oppressive-- violent even. To react to his enemy's dialogue, the boy just smiled at Maarschalk's taunt. With which he began moving nigh right after hearing. Noticeable surprise entered his demeanor upon seeing the boxer stance taken, not too different from the one he himself established against Carnage. It was a bold front, after all, the onyx-haied boy at the time possessed a much longer arm span than his target, and now Maars had a much longer arm span than him. Hmm. Did the two think alike, perhaps? It was too early to decide so...

Erebus was a similar fighter, at least in style of course. Now assuming ducking against Maars would be a big no-no; Erebus would have to play off similar tactic than did contrary to entering this match. Only now he was dodging not of caution from a smaller target's agility, but a larger target's strength. He couldn't charge in, especially assuming Maarschalk was a K.O.er based on height and weight alone. So instead Erebus made a reasonably paced speed towards the man. Hinting that he wasn't foolish, but eager to get underway.

Had they met in another lifetime; before Erebus became mentored by Grimoire Heart... He'd have touched gloves with the giant. However, that wouldn't be the case today. The onyx-haired warrior held two hands up, and bent his head so that his frontal body could be protected as well as his otherwise exposed head.

"I said I can't wait to hear you hit the floor Maarschalk. I hear rumors that men your size hit it harder, I'll make that my investigation here today." He would say coming in closer. At this point he was two meters from his opposition. If Maarschalk had come in to strike against him, Erebus would fall back and display head movement. To dodge, though knowing from older experience that such a thing could get him tackled he made it an obligation to swing back hard at Maars's esophagus. It would be an easier tactic throat jabbing him throughout this fight rather than attempting blatant head shots. On top of that, all coming attacks were eyed on the monster's body. One couldn't fight without stamina; something big men usually aren't all that great in having to begin with. So what better way to bring down a Goliath, than to kill his stamina from the inside out. Of course, such a thing had it's difficulties. Especially with that monstrous arm length. Erebus assumed it was around 3¼'' in length comparative to half his height.

Now then-- had Maarschlk played the victim here, Erebus would come in fairly moderate speed. Using his footwork to shoot off hands directed at the man's arteries located somewhat under the ribs. Erebus' game was meant to try and rupture such organs while continuously playing a back-out style. He didn't want to linger in his opponent's zone for too long; estimating that it might lead him to take unnecessary hits. He would jab left- right and move, before going at it again. Should Maarschalk throw a swing, Strategist would lean away and use his hand to push the strikes off course, successfully parrying them to move full-force body weight inwards upon another jab to the throat. The two would essentially be dancing along the ring should Maarschalk follow head and pursue him as he started a counter loop. The solemn anger which flared within him, drove an irritation to swing more wickedly every time he missed. His form was still relaxed, and this wouldn't deter his effectivity at all. But he couldn't shake his feelings, he was tired of being in last place. If he did miss, and his arms were caught, he'd ram his knees upwards into the hulking beast to free himself. Granted that Maarschalk would do such a thing at all.

He wanted to rise above magicians' in this world of magic. This was the only way currently, that he could do any such job. He had to continue and reach the end. He was fighting for his ideals here today, not his brawn.

There was a long period in which Erebus hated mages, in fact he still did to some degree. But rather than bitch and moan of his own genetic inability. He decided he'd expose them all, then here comes a tournament in which these mages can't use magic, his one chance at an equal competition. If the boy couldn't prevail over them in a test of his own game, then how would he ever rise against them on their's? Maarschak was a champion, but he was also a chess piece in a game fate played to slow Erebus down. For that, the boy must rebel. He must fight on and last out against Maarschalk. Failing to play at his top performance could drop him faster than cloud spits rain. Eyes glinting with hope and extremity. Erebus kept facial contact with his enemy. This foe would not lose eye contact except for when noticeable muscular contraction were seen in the peripheral vision. That'd be how he knew to react. Any other time, he'd try his guess at moving into position ahead of time whilst watching where his opponent's pupils traveled.

This wasn't Muy Thai, this was a game of bait and switch. For some strange reason though, it felt more dangerous. Regardless, the dark adventurer would not let Maarschalk impose upon his thoughts. Erebus feared no man, demon, or God. So whichever Maarschalk was more like, he could give no less a damn. Today, only one of them could be victorious. These people-- all people would underestimate the smaller fighter. Much to his disdain... That however would be the advantage the smaller man fed off of. The underdog in a gladiator fight. If Maarschalk was the dreaded Theokoles, then Erebus would be the aspiring Spartacus. The true games were yet to commence.

 

The events seemed to move like a blur through time, cut off of his dialogue by the giant rushing in, Erebus was interrupted of his entire scenario. He instead forced patience through gritted teeth as he was forced to react into a new timeline. With everything running at a new dimension, his mind had still been trained to hit the esophagus, but his ability to fight the real-time errors in his schematic had not nulled. Upon arriving close to the neck his objective changed entirely.

He did not move back however launched himself forward. He tunneled his way at max speed, sure the limb would hit him, but that would be much more soft if it were at the base end instead of the calf. See the thigh doesn't get much room to move. In addition, kicks from people of this length were kinda a bad idea. Erebus had successfully dodged a kick, and was now wrapping his hands under the man's thigh as well as his lower back. To keep Maarschalk from being unable to finish this with a knee the boy pressed body to body, threw not only his enemy upside down, but himself into this slam as well.

Erebus found himself remembering Victor... His mother... His sisters. He had done lots to achieve what he is today, even if he had a much longer road ahead of him. He'd never back down. He'd press onward and fight. This beast would not rob the mad man of his future. This was the story, the first chapter, of his true rise. To be halted so early was ignorant and insulting of his God or whatever deity that made him. Ultimate victory was all that lie awaiting, he just had to grab it by the neck, and jerk it til it died. That victory was inside of Maars'; if it wouldn't be given up easily then... It'd be stolen through force. That was the bottom line, no more games. The end was coming near.

Momentum and physical force combined with body weight were the weapons chosen to slam Maarschalk against the cold stone pavement, quite hard too. If the crash alone hit the monster's head, he'd likely be knocked out. Claiming Erebus sole heir to the next round and possibly this tournament entirely. The act was done so fast reacting while in mid-air would be difficult for Maars. Erebus also pressed his head against Maars abs and buried himself there for the second, hopefully protecting his temples by doing so. After slamming his opponent he'd quickly dart to the man's upper chest and try strikes' multiple times with his knee against stomach, groin, thigh, anything it could beat into. His hands themselves scrambled to parry Maars's away as well as crush on the giant's face against the stone like a bat from hell. This was his game. He'd slam against the man's head and knock him out. He'd try and end it all! So brutal and so savage-like! Did Fate fancy Erebus? Or did it fancy the Theokoles of a man...

In these last short moments the boy now knew he had a much more opposing target. But he demanded this ring be painted in red in blood, stained like a graffiti wall. Either his... Or Maarschalk's himself. Black birds flew in to perch on the ringside, and the quiet crowds gasped as the two men collided. Whatever this did was surely the epitome of surprising. For such juggernauts to come at each other was poetic. Like two meteorites, which would shatter millions of pieces and send them adrift. Much like the thoughts and spiraling minds of the audience in the bleachers themselves. They wanted to make noise, however voice was snatched from lung-- eyes unable to blink. The sound of the huge echos of fist and crashing was much too vast for such an exchange of mere cheer or boo. They sat dormant. Awaiting the ending, or awaiting the call for another bout.

"I can't lose.. Not to you."
 

He tried so hard-- but even a warrior must know defeat like this sometime in their life. As the foot rammed deep within him, he felt life darkening, his grip clenched the foot and he stood there, unable to breathe or move for a bracing moment. His form broke and he looked as if he were pierced the way he stood unbalanced. But to no avail, standing upright or not, blood spat from his lips into the stone at their feet. In all actuality, he had done little to nothing here. Aside from take a hard one shot. Even if he had wanted to do other things. It felt so weird to assume he could be defeated like this. He refused it at first...

"I'm not done.. With you..."

He would say, upon pushing the foot away, he stumbled. His nerves though-- caught up with him suddenly. Before he could even manage to throw another punch. He tripped and, fell. While the crowed had stayed silent they were no longer held back by this. Their cheers picked up once they noticed what had happened. Erebus was out. Noticeable trauma and possible breaks in his ribs were evident under the clothing. But to everyone else he just looked like a pitiful bystander. He was weak. Maarschalk being the clear victor, this battle had drawn to a close.