After the euphoria of the first minutes of the confrontation, the audience gradually entered a state of contemplative torpor. After 40 minutes, commentators impatiently complained about the alleged lack of action in the match, which they called "anti-fight". Part of the audience also complained, demanding a submission; and some people even dozed off in their chairs. 
 
None of this affected Renzo's meticulous strategy. 
 
Methodically, Renzo tired Kikuta, not only physically but, above all, psychically. The apparent stability of grappling on the ground drained his opponent's vital energy round by round. 
 
Maybe it was hard to understand, but Renzo knew exactly what he was doing. Sanae Kikuta, who entered the ring like a warrior brimming with strength, looked in the fifth round like a ghost of himself, the pale shadow of a fighter. 
 
Then, when no one, in that stadium packed with thousands of people, expected anything else, the sixth round began and attentive observers could see that something had changed – something in Renzo's eyes. He had that look now: that rare way of looking, terrible and frightening, cold and fire mixed together. It was the look of the player in front of the goalkeeper at the time of the penalty, of the predator in front of his victim. It was the look of a killer.
 
"Oh, my God!" was the commentator's sudden cry when, less than 1 minute into the sixth round, Renzo grabbed Kikuta's body, trapping him in a guillotine as tight as the mousetrap in the rat's neck.
 
Escape? Impossible.
 
Sanae Kikuta gave up in less than 10 seconds.
 
And if for some of us life is a random chaos of disjointed events, for Renzo each combat was like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, fitting one into the other, finally providing the knowledge to conquer the seemingly impossible victory.