CHAPTER 760: CHAPTER 760: CALM BEFORE THE CLASH

The rest of the week passed without surprises.

Damon stayed in rhythm, running the sessions with sharp structure and little tolerance for distractions. His focus never wavered.

While he kept the whole team working, his priority remained Ronny and Elias. The others understood. It wasn’t favoritism, it was necessity.

Each morning started with tape review and a clear rundown of goals. Ronny drilled anti-wrestling and footwork, working takedown defense until it became automatic.

Elias drilled pressure entries, clinch control, and elbow chains, tightening the tools he’d need to shut Zulu down.

No one slacked. Damon made sure of that. If he wasn’t holding pads, he was watching movement. If he wasn’t watching, he was correcting.

The fighters felt the intensity, but no one complained. The atmosphere was serious, professional, and driven.

Even the house tension cooled off. The trash talk slowed. Maybe it was Damon’s presence. Maybe it was the realization that soon, none of it would matter. Only the fights would.

Damon didn’t relax, though. He spent his evenings reviewing opponent habits, prepping contingency drills, and adjusting the training sets for the next day. Every detail counted. Every mistake had a cost.

By the end of the week, Ronny’s balance was sharper, and his sprawl no longer left him open.

Elias looked tighter on the inside, more confident closing the gap. Damon didn’t say it out loud, but it showed in how he nodded during drills. They were ready.

Fight day was close.

The smooth week was done.

The real test was coming.

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Ronny kept a low stance as they closed in. His lead hand hovered like a spring, light on his feet, circling just outside Coleman’s range.

He didn’t bite on the early feints, watching closely for any shift in the hips or drop in the level that might signal a shot.

Coleman stepped forward, heavy on his lead leg, trying to force Ronny back early. His eyes were fixed on Ronny’s waist, not the face, not the shoulders, just the space where wrestlers won fights.

Ronny jabbed the body. Quick, precise. Then slid to his right and tagged the leg with a low kick. Nothing fancy, but it made Coleman reset.

Coleman didn’t flinch. He shuffled forward again, raised his hands, and threw a hard right.

Ronny slipped inside it and circled out. He didn’t want to get drawn into wild exchanges, he knew that would only open him up for the shot.

The pace stayed measured. No wild flurries. No quick blitzes. Just careful pressure and footwork.

Then Coleman dropped level.

Ronny sprawled fast. The shot didn’t land clean, Ronny had seen it coming, and he was quick to post his hands, hips heavy.

Coleman clamped on a single leg but couldn’t lift. Ronny pushed the head down, stepped out, and circled back to center.

A sharp cheer came from the corner. Damon’s voice followed, short and simple. "Good read. Stay sharp."

Ronny nodded once and went back to work. He chopped at the legs again, this time harder, and followed with a quick one-two to the guard.

Coleman stayed composed but wasn’t cutting off the cage well. Ronny was moving, landing, and forcing resets.

Still, the danger hadn’t passed.

Coleman knew what he was doing. He kept baiting with punches, giving Ronny just enough to counter, then trying to time the shot underneath.

Every time Ronny threw more than two strikes, Coleman dipped low, testing his base.

But Ronny didn’t panic.

He wasn’t overcommitting.

He kept his strikes short, tight, and mobile.

He had confidence, not just in his striking, but in his preparation. Damon had drilled this into him all week. Pressure was only dangerous when you gave it what it wanted.

And Ronny wasn’t giving anything for free.

Coleman adjusted his stance, hands raised, shoulder twitching to fake another level change.

He wasn’t rushing anymore. The early shot had told him something: Ronny was prepared.

Not just physically, but mentally. That kind of sprawl didn’t come from guessing it came from drilling.

From knowing the shot was coming before the other man even threw it.

Ronny kept circling, heel slightly raised as he pivoted. His eyes didn’t leave Coleman’s chest. He wasn’t waiting to react, he was reading the rhythm, the bounce in Coleman’s knees, the twitch in his shoulders.

Coleman bounced forward again, this time throwing a heavy overhand right. It was a disguise.

He didn’t care if it landed. The real plan was underneath. As Ronny moved to slip, Coleman dropped low, arms snaking in for a double-leg.

Ronny didn’t sprawl this time.

He stepped back fast, hips turned slightly, and as Coleman drove in, Ronny planted his right foot and slid out to the left.

Then he pivoted hard and fired a left straight into Coleman’s exposed ribs. The thud echoed through the cage.

Coleman grunted but didn’t slow.

He crashed forward, clinched around the waist, and tried to drag Ronny down.

It wasn’t clean. Ronny had already twisted off-center. Still, Coleman latched on like a vice, pulling at the hips, trying to drag the fight into the cage wall.

Ronny let him.

It was better to fight off the wall than burn his legs in open space.

Once his back touched the cage, he dropped into a wide stance, knees bent, and began hand-fighting.

He pressed Coleman’s head down, dug an underhook on the left, and posted his right elbow against the cage to kill Coleman’s pressure.

Coleman adjusted. His hips lowered, driving through Ronny’s base, trying to clasp his hands behind the knees.

Ronny widened his stance again. He bent slightly forward, forcing his weight down.

With a sharp jerk, he yanked his leg free of the grip and immediately threw a short elbow across the top. It landed on Coleman’s temple.

Coleman flinched, loosened the hold just a little.

That was all Ronny needed.

He turned, shoved Coleman’s face down, and slipped away from the cage.

The crowd responded. It wasn’t a massive moment, but in a fight like this, every escape was a win.

Ronny didn’t chase.

He went back to center.

Arms loose. Hands up. Breathing steady.

He let Coleman come again.

And Coleman did.

He had to.

He knew he wasn’t winning on the feet. His strikes were stiff, mostly thrown to close distance.

His real weapon was control, top pressure, and chain wrestling.