The longer they stayed upright, the more Ronny found space to land shots and punish every failed entry.
Coleman tried a new angle.
He threw a left hook that missed, then spun fast for a back kick, not to land, but to set up another entry.
As his leg came down, he darted in, reaching for Ronny's left leg this time.
He shifted back, caught the shot shallow, and twisted his hips.
Then he did something different.
Instead of defending with the usual sprawl, he whipped a sharp right hook down at Coleman's ear mid-shot. It connected.
Coleman's hands loosened. His balance wobbled.
Ronny stepped back, then launched a knee straight up the middle.
It grazed the chest. Not clean, but enough to force Coleman to stand upright.
Ronny didn't hesitate.
He whipped a left uppercut under the ribs, followed by a right cross that popped the chin. Coleman backed up, shaking his head. Not rocked, but clearly frustrated.
Ronny was making it a puzzle.
He wasn't just stopping takedowns. He was punishing the attempts. Making Coleman pay with every failed entry.
And all the while, Ronny's footwork never broke. He never overcommitted.
He'd step in, land, step out. Or shift angles mid-combo to stay clear of the level change.
Coleman charged again.
But this time, Ronny didn't retreat.
He threw a sharp jab that snapped Coleman's nose.
Then a left hook to the liver.
As Coleman dipped, instincts pulling him into a shot, Ronny pivoted out and landed a short elbow on the break.
The crowd popped again. Damon shouted instructions from the corner, but Ronny barely heard him. He was locked in now.
Coleman finally clinched, holding on to slow the pace.
Ronny didn't rush out. He framed with his forearm, dug an underhook, and began turning Coleman until his own back was against open space.
Then he pushed off and let his hands go.
A high kick that forced Coleman's guard up.
Then a switch stance and a right low kick that cracked against the thigh.
Every entry was shut down. Every escape gave Ronny more time to strike. And now, as the round neared its final minute, Coleman's breathing had changed. His shots weren't sharp. His level changes were slow.
He stepped in and threw a fake uppercut, Coleman flinched low.
Ronny brought the knee up, fast and tight.
This one landed flush to the chest and sent Coleman stumbling back.
Ronny advanced. Calm. In control.
He fired a jab to blind, then dropped a looping left to the body again. Then another teep to push Coleman into the cage.
Coleman clinched again, but this time there was no urgency. Just survival.
Ronny framed and whispered something under his breath, no smile, just focus.
Then he broke the grip and let the round end on a clean jab to the face.
Coleman turned away, breathing heavy, hands low.
Ronny just walked to his corner, cool and composed.
He wasn't dancing. He wasn't celebrating.
But he knew what he was doing.
Damon knelt down in front of Ronny, placing his hand briefly on the fighter's shoulder.
Ronny was calm, barely breathing heavy, but Damon saw the focus in his eyes. He nodded once, then leaned in.
"He's fading," Damon said quietly. "But he's not gonna quit easy. You've done the hard part, now make him drown."
Ronny listened without blinking.
"He's waiting for you to overextend. Don't. Keep circling left, cut the cage, make him work to square up. Every time he resets, touch him. Low kick, jab, body shot, don't let him breathe."
Damon shifted closer, his voice firm but even.
"If he clinches again, don't stay there. Elbow the break, frame with your forearm, and rip to the ribs. Make him regret every grab."
He mimed a quick elbow then pointed to Coleman's torso.
"He's upright now. Head's there. Mix your strikes. He thinks you're playing safe, so surprise him. High kick off a fake, but only if he's not expecting it."
Damon gave one last look at Coleman's corner, then back to his fighter.
"Listen to your own rhythm. You're ahead, but don't coast. Finish this if the chance is there, but don't chase. He'll fold if you keep making him miss and pay."
He stood, gave Ronny a pat on the back, and stepped out.
"Take the round. Take his will."
Ronny exhaled once and stood. The bell was coming. The second round was his to own.
Damon liked Ronny a lot. It wasn't just the shared heritage, though that did add a quiet sense of pride, it was how Ronny moved.
The way he shifted his weight before throwing, the sharpness of his lead hand, the patience in his reads.
It all reminded Damon of his first favorite fighter. Collin NcGyver.
Watching this fight, he couldn't help but think back to that war between Collin and the Eagle.
That old clash of precision and pressure. But this one felt different. It felt balanced. Ronny wasn't just surviving.
He was matching skill with skill, adapting under fire, and fighting like a man with full control of his tools.
Damon had studied Collin's fights endlessly growing up. The wide stance. The calculated pressure.
The way he punished overcommitments without wasting movement. Ronny didn't copy him, but his instincts carried the same DNA. The same venom wrapped in control.
And the best part was that Ronny hadn't peaked yet. Damon could see it. This was a fighter still rising.
That was why he cared.
Not because Ronny was Irish. But because he was sharp. Because he listened. Because he had that thing you couldn't teach, a feel for the moment.
Damon crossed his arms as the second round began. He wasn't nervous.
The horn sounded, crisp and loud, snapping the room back into focus as Ronny and Coleman stepped out from their corners.
Ronny kept that wide stance, light on the balls of his feet, his hands low but ready. He bounced once, adjusted his angle, then crept forward in a slow arc.
He knew Coleman wanted the clinch. The takedown. The grind. But Ronny wasn't about to walk into that.