Dinner that night carried a strange weight. The small apartment smelled of stir-fried garlic greens and braised pork, but under the clatter of chopsticks a heavy silence hung. Zhou Hui kept fussing over her son's bowl, piling meat and vegetables as though the motion might ease the tension.
"My son's making a fool of himself," she muttered under her breath, not quite meeting Yogan's eyes.
Yogan felt the words but stayed calm. He knew tonight would be a turning point. After weeks of training, investing, and planning, it was time to put his cards on the table.
When the last dishes were cleared, he stood, squared his shoulders, and said quietly, "Dad, Mom, there's something I want to talk to you about."
Zhou Hui and Sun Jianjun exchanged a glance. His father's posture was different now—no longer casual, but upright, as though preparing for a business negotiation. Since the stock-market miracle, Sun Jianjun had begun treating Yogan less like a child and more like an adult.
"Go on," his father said.
"I don't want to take the university entrance exam anymore."
The words cracked through the living room like a thunderclap.
Zhou Hui's face went pale. "Xiao Yogan, what nonsense are you talking about! If you don't take the exam, what will you do with your future?"
Yogan ignored his mother's alarm, keeping his gaze on his father. His voice was steady. "I want to go to America."
Sun Jianjun blinked. "America? To study abroad?"
"No." Yogan shook his head. His eyes sharpened, focusing into points of light. For the first time he allowed his true ambition to stand naked before them.
"I want to fight in the UFC—the world's most elite mixed martial arts competition. I want to win the championship belt."
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Professional fighting? A championship belt? For two ordinary parents in a second-tier city, the words were not just foreign—they were absurd.
"No! Absolutely not!" Zhou Hui recovered first, her voice rising. "It's too dangerous! On TV they show men bleeding, heads split open! I won't allow it!"
"Xiao Yogan," Sun Jianjun said more slowly, his brow furrowing, "even if you can make some money, fighting is no game. People get hurt. Sometimes they die."
Yogan exhaled softly. He had expected resistance. Now came the hardest part.
"Dad, Mom, please listen to me."
He crossed the room, opened a drawer in the TV stand, and pulled out a disc. Sliding it into the DVD player, he picked up the remote. The screen came alive with a sequence of images he had edited himself—highlights of the UFC legends he admired most in his previous life: Anderson Silva, Georges St-Pierre, Khabib Nurmagomedov.
Under the bright lights of the Octagon, fighters danced, struck, clinched; the roar of crowds filled the living room. Victory scenes followed: men with belts around their waists, eyes shining as thousands cheered.
"This is my dream," Yogan said from behind his parents, his voice low but firm. "I'm not acting impulsively. Dad, you watched my last match. I knocked out an opponent who weighed tens of kilograms more than me with one punch. That wasn't luck. It was skill. It was talent."
He stepped closer. "Mother, I was born for this stage."
"You don't have to worry about money," he continued, pointing toward the study. "That sixty thousand yuan in my account is just the beginning. I'll turn it into six hundred thousand, then six million. I'll cover every expense myself. You won't pay a single penny for me to go abroad."
"I'm not going to America to play. I'll enroll in the best nearby university to continue my studies while training in the top gyms in the world. I've made a detailed plan for every step."
Each sentence landed like a hammer. The calm confidence in his eyes, the precision of his planning, and the raw longing in his voice shook his parents more than any outburst could. They began to see not a reckless teenager but a young man with a vision larger than their own.
Sun Jianjun's cigarette burned down to his fingers before he noticed. He crushed it out, stared at his son for a long moment, and then finally spoke.
"How much start-up money do you need?"
Zhou Hui turned toward him, startled. "Old Sun—" she began, but he held up a hand to stop her.
Inside, Yogan's heart trembled. His father had softened.
"The more the better," he said honestly. "Fifty thousand, a million—any amount increases my chances of success."
Without a word, Sun Jianjun stood, disappeared into the bedroom, and returned with a worn bankbook. He set it down on the coffee table with a soft thud.
"This is all our savings," he said. "Two hundred and thirty thousand. With your sixty thousand, that's about three hundred thousand. Is that enough?"
Yogan stared at the faded bankbook, understanding what it represented—years of long hours, scraped profits, small sacrifices. His chest tightened.
"Dad," he said quietly, "I told you, I won't use the family's money."
He pushed the bankbook back across the table into his father's hand.
"Give me three months. In three months I'll put a million in cash in front of you. I hope by then you can send me to the airport with a smile."
Before they could respond, he turned and walked to his room. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing out a long, shaky sigh. The hardest part of his path to America had just been cleared.
He crossed to his desk and unfolded a world map. His finger drifted across the Pacific, coming to rest on a point bathed in sunlight: California.
Beaches, palm trees—and the battle shrines of his dreams. American Kickboxing Academy. Xtreme Couture. Names that made his blood quicken.
He picked up his phone and called Zhang Lei.
"Hello, Coach."
"You little rascal," Zhang Lei's familiar voice crackled through the line. "Why didn't you show up for training today?"
"Coach, I… might be going somewhere far away."
A pause. "America?"
"Hm."
There was another pause, then a laugh that sounded half-sad, half-proud. "Good boy. You're really going for it. Do you need my help?"
"Help me find all the amateur MMA bouts in the country over the next few months. I need footage—proof of my fights—before I go."
"No problem," Zhang Lei said without hesitation. "Leave it to me."
When Yogan hung up, his eyes returned to the map. The paper gleamed under the desk lamp. His reflection stared back from the windowpane: a young man with bruised knuckles, a clear plan, and a hunger brighter than ever.
A new journey had begun.
---