The next day, Erik and Pyrrha hear news from Vale through their scroll.
Roman Torchwick has successfully stolen an Atlasian Paladin—a heavy-class war machine from Atlas—and used it against Team RWBY along with Sun and Neptune.
"Fortunately," Erik says quietly, "they didn't run into the ones behind the scenes."
Erik now sits alone in the training hall, watching Pyrrha's sparring match against Team CRDL.
As a former tournament champion from Mistral, Pyrrha demonstrates exactly why her reputation exists. She moves with precision and confidence, dismantling CRDL without any real difficulty.
"And that's the match," Professor Goodwitch announces.
Cardin glares up at Pyrrha from the floor. "Lucky shot."
"I think you'll have no problem qualifying for the tournament," Glynda continues.
"Thank you, Professor," Pyrrha replies calmly.
"Alright," Glynda says, turning to the class. "I know that's a tough act to follow, but we have time for one more sparring match. Any volunteers?"
Her gaze moves across the students, briefly settling on Blake.
"No?" Glynda says. "What about you, Miss Belladonna? You've been rather docile for the past few classes. Why don't you—"
A hand rises.
"I'll do it."
Glynda turns. "Mercury, is it? Very well. Let's find you an opponent."
Before she can continue, Mercury speaks again.
"Actually," he says, eyes already locked on someone else, "I want to fight… you."
Glynda then looks toward Erik.
"Mr. Lioren, do you accept the challenge from Mr. Black?"
For a brief moment, Erik stills.
The name lands heavier than it should.
Black. Marcus Black. A former professional Assasin.
Something flickers behind his eyes—recognition, not surprise—then vanishes.
"…Sure," Erik replies calmly. "Why not."
Mercury grins wider. "Heh. Didn't take you for the eager type."
"I'm not," Erik says. "I'm just curious."
They head toward the arena without another word. Around them, students begin to notice, whispers spreading quickly.
Mercury slows, glancing at Erik's empty hands.
"…You're not grabbing your weapon?"
"No," Erik answers.
Mercury raises an eyebrow. "You serious?"
"You're a martial artist," Erik says evenly. "You rely on kicks, momentum, pressure points."
Mercury chuckles. "Wow. Homework already?"
"So I thought," Erik continues, "it'd be more interesting to keep this hand-to-hand."
Mercury stops and turns fully toward him, grin sharpening into something predatory.
"This," he says, tapping a metal foot lightly against the floor, "is my specialty."
He leans in just slightly. "Hope you don't cry when you lose."
Erik meets his gaze without blinking.
"I won't," he says simply. "But don't expect me to underestimate you."
Mercury laughs under his breath. "Man, you're either confident… or stupid."
Erik shrugs. "We'll find out."
They step into the arena.
The air feels tighter now.
Mercury rolls his shoulders, eyes locked on Erik. "Just so we're clear—no holding back."
Erik exhales slowly, grounding himself. "Wouldn't be fair otherwise."
For the first time, Mercury's grin falters—just a fraction.
Then it returns.
"Alright, mystery boy," he says. "Let's see what you've got."
They take their stances.
And in the brief moment before the first strike, Mercury realizes something unsettling—
Erik isn't posturing.
Isn't nervous.
Isn't excited.
He's measuring.
A ripple runs through the arena.
At first, it's just curiosity.
Erik Lioren stands in the ring without a weapon. No sword. No Dust. No familiar stance Beacon students recognize.
Whispers spread almost immediately.
"Wait… where's his weapon?"
"He's seriously going barehanded?"
"Does he know Mercury's a close-combat specialist?"
From the sidelines, Ruby leans forward, eyes wide. "Oh wow. He's really not using anything."
Weiss squints. "That's… either really brave or really stupid."
Frost suddenly scream. "Erik, you can do it!"
Pyrrha doesn't respond.
Her eyes never leave Erik.
The signal sounds.
Mercury explodes forward—fast, precise, exactly what everyone expects.
And then—
Gasps.
Erik doesn't retreat.
He cuts inside the kick, collapsing the distance before Mercury can fully extend. The exchange is tight, brutal, efficient. Momentum dies. Control shifts.
Mercury is forced back a step.
For a heartbeat, no one speaks.
"…Did he just jam Mercury's center?" Weiss murmurs.
"That shouldn't work," Yang mutters. "Not against someone who fights like that."
But it does.
Erik presses.
Not wildly. Not recklessly.
He controls space—forces reactions, dictates timing. Mercury is moving, but he isn't deciding.
The murmurs grow louder.
"He's setting the pace."
"Mercury's reacting."
"This isn't supposed to happen."
From the railing, Jaune grips the edge. "Is Erik… winning?"
Ren watches closely. "He's anticipating."
Pyrrha's fingers curl lightly against her sleeve.
She recognizes this version of him.
Not playful.
Not relaxed.
Focused.
Mercury skids back again, boots scraping as he regains his footing. His Aura flares faintly—steady, intact—but the rhythm is gone.
Silence spreads.
Yang exhales slowly. "…Okay. That's not bravery."
Weiss nods once. "That's experience."
Ruby whispers, "But how…?"
Pyrrha answers Ruby question. "Erik actually pretty good at close combat than you may know. And he's probably fought this kind of style before."
Her gaze flicks briefly to Mercury—then back to Erik.
"And he knows exactly where it breaks."
Mercury straightens, eyes locked on Erik. The grin from earlier is gone, replaced by focus.
The crowd feels it.
That shift.
The realization that this fight is unfolding on Erik's terms.
That Mercury Black—the specialist—has lost control of the domain he's most dangerous in.
Erik adjusts his stance, breathing even.
Unarmed.
Unshaken.
The arena falls silent—not because nothing is happening—
—but because everyone understands something important has already changed.
Mercury exhales and resets his stance.
The grin doesn't return—but the focus does.
He rolls his shoulders, eyes sharp now, studying Erik differently. Not looking to finish the fight.
Looking for patterns.
"Alright," Mercury mutters. "Let's try this again."
He moves—faster, but controlled.
A low feint. A sudden pivot. A precise kick—testing range, reaction time, recovery speed.
Erik shifts back just enough.
No Aura flare.
No counterstrike.
Mercury notices.
He presses again.
A spinning kick flows into a chained follow-up, pressure constant. He forces Erik to defend, to respond, to show something—anything—out of the ordinary.
But Erik doesn't give him that.
He blocks with structure, not strength. Redirects instead of absorbing. Every movement minimal, economical.
Mercury clicks his tongue. "C'mon," he says lightly. "You hiding something?"
Another strike—faster. Harder.
Erik steps inside again.
This time, Mercury expects it.
He shifts mid-motion, dropping his weight into a low sweep—aimed to force an Aura reaction.
Erik hops the sweep and lands inside Mercury's guard.
Too close.
Mercury barely reacts before Erik's forearm crashes into his shoulder—not to damage, but to jam. His follow-up kick dies before it can build momentum.
Erik twists, hooks Mercury's leg, and uses Mercury's own rotation to spin him off-line.
Mercury stumbles back two steps.
His Aura flickers—strained, but intact.
The crowd murmurs again.
Mercury attacks once more—relentless.
High-low combinations. Constant pressure. He tries to force fatigue.
But Erik adapts.
He stops retreating.
He waits.
Mercury commits to a powerful straight kick.
That's the mistake.
Erik pivots, catches the kick at the shin, and steps through the impact. His shoulder slams into Mercury's chest, breaking posture.
Before Mercury can recover, Erik counters—
A short elbow to the ribs.
A heel hook behind the knee.
A sharp shove that sends Mercury crashing to the ground.
Mercury hits the floor hard and rolls once before stopping.
His Aura flares brighter—still intact, but clearly taxed.
Silence falls.
Erik doesn't advance.
He simply stands there, breathing steady.
Mercury pushes himself up onto one knee, eyes locked on Erik.
Then his gaze flicks upward.
To the Aura monitor.
Erik Lioren — 100%
Mercury Black — 48%
Mercury blinks once.
Then again.
"…Huh."
Something clicks.
Because Erik is blocking and redirecting his attacks, it should be impossible for someone to remain at full Aura.
Mercury exhales slowly, a crooked smile forming—not defiance, but understanding.
"So that's it," he mutters. "Some kind of Aura recovery semblance."
His gaze returns to Erik, sharper now.
Mercury lets out a quiet laugh and raises both hands, palms open.
"I forfeit."
A ripple of confusion moves through the crowd.
Erik isn't surprised.
He already knows Mercury wasn't trying to win—only to extract information.
"Alright," Erik replies calmly.
Glynda steps forward and signals the end of the match.
"The victor," she announces, "is Erik Lioren."
To Be Continued...