Coleman moved like a tank with a brain, solid, always pressuring, but calculating behind those eyes.

He didn't throw recklessly. He stalked. His hands stayed high, chin tucked, and every step forward was a setup.

Ronny circled left, jabbed low at the thigh, then flicked a feint up top. He wasn't giving anything for free.

Coleman didn't bite.

Instead, he shot low, fast, exploding forward with a level change that could catch most strikers flat-footed.

But Ronny had seen it coming.

He sprawled hard, hips heavy, pushing Coleman's head down while framing off the shoulder.

As Coleman tried to adjust, Ronny slid out to the side, angled off, and clipped him with a short left as they separated.

It wasn't heavy, but it was sharp. Precise. The kind that made a wrestler think twice.

The crowd clapped. The coaches shouted.

Ronny reset.

Coleman wiped his nose and came forward again.

This time, Ronny didn't wait. He darted in with a one-two, clean and straight, then slipped out before Coleman could grab.

He added a low kick, just to keep things honest, then circled again. Always moving. Always controlling space.

Damon watched, nodding.

He didn't need Ronny to finish.

He needed him to frustrate.

Coleman faked a shot. Ronny didn't flinch. He jabbed again, hit the chest, then rolled under the counter. Clean footwork. Smart pacing.

Then came the real shot.

Coleman dipped and drove, this time with more commitment, his arms locking around the waist.

He lifted. Drove. Ronny posted, tried to turn, but Coleman adjusted mid-lift and slammed him down near the cage.

Big moment.

Coleman immediately worked to pass, pressing into half guard. Ronny, though, kept calm. He framed with the elbow, posted a foot to the fence, and slowly worked to slide his hips.

Coleman threw a few short punches to stay busy, but they were blocked or deflected. Ronny's legs shifted, snuck in a butterfly hook, and after a few seconds, he got back to full guard.

Not ideal, but not broken.

He held wrist control, stayed tight, and slowed the pace.

Coleman looked up at the clock. His corner shouted for damage.

But Ronny didn't panic.

He baited the posture up, then threw up his legs for a triangle. It wasn't locked, but it forced Coleman to scramble, and in that scramble, Ronny kicked off the cage and stood.

Back to the feet.

Both men breathing heavier now. Faces marked. Shoulders rising.

Ronny's jab came quicker now. He stung the nose. Landed a hook. Coleman shook it off and advanced again, but there was less snap in his entries. Less confidence.

Ronny was still fresh. Still moving clean.

And Coleman was running out of ideas.

Coleman circled, slower now, his mouth slightly open as he sucked in air. His corner shouted for him to feint, to mix it up, but he was caught between ideas.

The takedowns had cost him energy, and Ronny had made him pay for every failed attempt.

Ronny didn't rush. He stayed disciplined. His hands moved smoothly, snapping out jabs and feints without overcommitting.

He fainted a left, then suddenly shifted his hips and threw a clean question-mark kick that grazed Coleman's temple.

It wasn't a knockout shot, but it sent a clear message, Ronny could touch him from angles he wasn't ready for.

Coleman reached for a reactive shot, but Ronny had already stepped off-line, pivoting outside and tagging him with a stiff straight left to the nose.

The crowd of fighters and coaches around the cage let out a few scattered reactions, impressed by the timing.

Then Ronny added something new.

He started switching stances mid-combo.

Orthodox jab. Southpaw check hook. Back to orthodox for the body shot.

Coleman couldn't track it all. He covered up, started to shell, but that only made things worse.

Ronny stepped in with a front kick to the body that snapped Coleman's torso backward, then followed it with a wide left hook that cracked around the guard.

Coleman stumbled.

Ronny didn't rush in wild. He stayed calm, kept his feet under him, and began slicing Coleman apart with precision.

Two more jabs. A leg kick. Another step-off left. Coleman dropped levels and dove at the hips, but there was nothing behind it, Ronny sprawled, circled off, and landed an elbow on the break.

Blood now. Coleman's nose had opened up.

Ronny exhaled through his nose, never breaking rhythm. He looked to his corner, gave a quick nod, then turned back toward his fading opponent.

Coleman reset his stance, wiped his face, and charged again, this time going for broke with wild punches.

Ronny ducked under the right hand and came up with a shovel hook to the body, then pivoted out, forcing Coleman to chase him again.

This time, as Coleman lunged, Ronny stepped in and timed a perfect check hook, turning the hips just right, twisting into the shot.

The punch snapped Coleman's head sideways.

He didn't fall, but he stumbled, legs wobbling.

Ronny pressed now.

Jab. Left hook. Body shot. Step in elbow.

He was painting on a clinic.

Coleman tried to clinch. Ronny underhooked, circled off the cage, and broke with a hard short elbow to the eyebrow.

Another cut.

Damon watched with narrowed eyes.

This was what they'd trained for. Ronny's entire camp had been built around balance. Controlling space. Punishing overreach. He wasn't a knockout artist, he was a surgeon.

Inside the cage, Coleman staggered back again.

Ronny raised his right hand, feinted a high kick, then switched stances and threw a spinning back kick to the ribs. It connected flush, Coleman grunted, folded slightly, and had to step back to catch himself.

Ronny didn't let him.

He pushed forward, cut the angle, and dug a left hand into the liver. Then a jab upstairs. Coleman froze.

Ronny switched again, now orthodox, and snapped a rear uppercut that sent Coleman reeling toward the fence.

Ronny closed the distance, pressed Coleman's forearm down to clear his vision, then snapped off two tight hooks around the guard.

Coleman fell into a panic clinch, grabbing anything he could.

But it was too late.

Ronny framed, pulled the head down, and sent one clean knee to the body. Then another. Then a short elbow over the top that landed behind the ear.

Coleman crumbled to one knee.

Ronny backed up as the ref hovered close.

Coleman stood up slowly.

Barely.

He was blinking blood out of his eyes. Breathing heavy. His hands dropped lower and lower with every second.

Ronny circled right.

Set his feet.

Then stepped in, faked the jab, and uncorked a rear straight with full rotation, right on the chin.

Coleman's head snapped back, and his body followed.

He dropped like a chopped tree.