When Yogan pushed open the door of his family's small apartment, dragging a half-worn suitcase behind him, the familiar smell of fried scallions and detergent mixed in the corridor. His parents were already waiting in the living room. Both stared at him with a confused, almost dazed expression—a mixture of anticipation, unease, and reluctant pride.
The wheels of his suitcase scraped softly across the wooden floor. Without saying much, Yogan set down his backpack on the coffee table. His movements were deliberate, calm, almost ceremonial. Then he unzipped the bag, pulled out a thick stack of bank statements and a printed stock-market trading log, and placed them neatly before his parents as if they were evidence in court.
"Dad, Mom," he said simply, "you check."
For a moment the only sound was the ticking wall clock.
Sun Jianjun—his father—reached out. His hands trembled as he picked up the thin but thousand-jin-weight bundle of paper. He flipped the pages one by one, eyes widening with each line. Every trade was there: dates, amounts, buy orders, sell orders—each transaction clearly recorded.
Finally his gaze fell on the last column: the current account balance.
A long string of numbers leapt off the page and struck him like a hammer to the chest.
1,273,600 yuan.
Beside him, Zhou Hui bent closer. She covered her mouth with one hand as she saw the figure, her eyes instantly filling with tears. This was not a dream.
Three months earlier, her son's bold words—"I'm putting a million in cash in front of you"—had still been echoing in her ears. At the time she and her husband had dismissed it as youthful bravado, a rash young man talking big. But now that boast had become reality, and far beyond even their wildest imaginings.
"Money… enough." Sun Jianjun's voice was hoarse. He put down the papers and looked at his son with a mixture of awe and worry. "Are you… really sure about this?"
"I'm sure." Yogan nodded. His expression was serious and solemn. "I was sure from the first day I decided to walk this path."
He reached into the suitcase again and drew out another set of documents. This time it was an acceptance letter from a community college in San Jose, California, together with a full F-1 student visa application.
"I've arranged everything quietly through an agent," Yogan explained, "using my own money, to make sure my status in the U.S. is completely legal."
He paused, then smiled faintly. "I won't lie to you. I'll go to school there, learn the language and culture. Education will be part of my extracurricular activities."
It was a well-intentioned half-truth, meant to soothe his parents' fears.
"This is my school, my visa plan," he continued. "I've arranged accommodation with an elderly Chinese couple there—they'll look after me. Everything's been planned."
His parents could only stare. They saw the meticulous preparation, the calm maturity, the self-confidence radiating from their son. This was not a boy they could hold back any longer. He was no longer a fledgling bird; he was an eagle ready to soar into the open sky.
Home, they realized, should not be a cage to confine him. It should be his last safe harbor before he took flight.
"Go," said Sun Jianjun at last. He stood, patted Yogan's shoulder hard, and blinked away the redness in his eyes. "Take care of yourself when you get there. Don't be afraid to spend money. If you don't have enough, just tell us."
"Mom…"
"Your mom will pack your things," Zhou Hui said hoarsely, turning away to wipe the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.
---
The departure date was set for one week later.
During that week, Yogan went nowhere. He stayed at home, savoring the quiet routine of family life. He played chess with his father in the evenings, listened to his mother's gentle nagging, and memorized the warmth of their voices—what might be his last bit of peaceful family time for several years.
He also made a special trip to Zhenwei Martial Arts Gym. The news of his journey to America had spread quickly, and everyone came to see him off: rivals he had once defeated, brothers with whom he had sweated and bled, mentors who had corrected his stance a hundred times. Each offered sincere blessings.
Zhang Lei, one of his closest training partners, pulled him aside and pressed a small USB flash drive into his hand.
"Kid," Zhang said with a grin, "these are the highest-resolution edited versions of your six best matches. I had them done by a professional—music, slow-motion replays, the whole package. It's impressive as hell."
He clapped Yogan on the shoulder. "When you get there, don't embarrass us Chinese. Remember, no matter how high you fly, this will always be your first home."
Yogan nodded slowly, eyes burning, and hugged his teacher tightly. "Thank you," he whispered.
---
A week later, at the airport.
The atmosphere of separation was heavy, almost suffocating. Zhou Hui clung to her son's hand and repeated her admonitions—"be safe," "eat on time," "wear more clothes"—as if the words could form a protective talisman around him.
Sun Jianjun stood off to one side, smoking silently. His reddened eyes betrayed his reluctance more than any words could.
"Dad, Mom, I'm leaving." Yogan took a deep breath, straightened his back, and started toward the security checkpoint.
He did not look back. He was afraid that if he did, the power he had built with so much effort would collapse in an instant.
Only when his silhouette disappeared at the bottom of the stairs did Zhou Hui break. She threw herself into her husband's arms and sobbed.
---
The flight lasted more than ten hours.
When the plane finally touched down at San Francisco International Airport, Yogan stepped onto a land that felt both foreign and strangely familiar.
There was no hesitation, no tourist curiosity. He immediately boarded a bus bound for San Jose. Outside the window, the scenery shifted quickly—glass skyscrapers, wide highways, palm trees, and people of every skin color. Each glimpse reminded him he had entered a completely new world.
Yet his heart remained calm. His goal was razor-clear.
He did not go to community college. He did not visit the elderly Chinese couple. Those were just stories crafted to reassure his parents.
Instead, following the address on a scrap of paper, he found a small apartment in a quiet neighborhood in south San Jose. He had booked it online weeks earlier. The room wasn't large, but it was enough for one determined young man.
He dropped his bags, didn't rest, only took a quick shower and changed into clean gym clothes. In his pocket, the USB flash drive felt like a talisman containing his past, his future, and his hopes.
Then he left the apartment.
His destination—the real reason he had chosen this address—was only a ten-minute walk away.
---
The industrial park looked unremarkable: gray warehouse-style buildings, a faint smell of machine oil, a scattering of parked cars. But on the door of one building hung a black sign with plain white letters:
American Kickboxing Academy.
Known worldwide simply as AKA.
From these walls had emerged legends—Cain Velasquez, Daniel Cormier, Luke Rockhold. In Yogan's previous life, years later, this very place would also host a relentless Dagestani named Khabib Nurmagomedov, who launched his undefeated legend here.
AKA was famous not only for producing champions but also for its ferocious training intensity and its high-level wrestling system. That was exactly why Yogan had chosen it.
His striking was already elite, sharpened by what he privately called his Godlike Reflexes. But in his past life he had struggled badly against top-level wrestlers. Wrestling and ground fighting had been his Achilles' heel.
This time, from the very beginning, he would turn his greatest weakness into his strongest shield.
He stopped before the door and drew a long, steadying breath. The air smelled of sweat, canvas, and intertwined dreams. From inside came the heavy thud of bodies hitting mats, coaches shouting instructions, and the muffled rhythm of fists striking pads.
This was where he would spend the next few years. This was where he would forge himself into a champion.
He tightened his grip on the USB stick—his silent promise to everyone back home—and opened the door to his destiny.
A seventeen-year-old Chinese youth named Yogan stepped alone onto foreign soil, about to challenge the best martial arts gym in the world.
---