The moment Yogan pushed the heavy glass door open, a wall of heat rolled out and hit him like a wave. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, disinfectant, and raw male hormones. A deafening medley of sounds poured over him—punches thudding into pads, the sharp clap of gloves striking mitts, grunts of exertion, and coaches barking commands in clipped English.
Inside the enormous warehouse-like space, activity swirled everywhere.
Near the entrance, long rows of heavy bags swung like black pendulums. Fighters hammered them with elbows, knees, and fists, the relentless thud-thud-thud of impact rising and falling like drums in a battle march. Leather smacked against leather. Chalk dust floated like pale smoke in the sunlight streaming through high windows.
To the right stretched a large wrestling area covered with gray mats. Dozens of burly men rolled and wrestled there, their muscles knotting under the harsh fluorescent light. Each takedown ended in a muffled thump, sweat spraying off bodies. The sound was strangely rhythmic, like surf pounding a cliff.
At the far end stood a full-sized Octagon cage, its black mesh gleaming. Several professional fighters were moving inside it with deadly precision. Their footwork was crisp, their punches carried real menace. The pressure radiating off them was almost tangible, a sense that any mistake here could end in pain.
Yogan's eyes swept the entire facility like radar, cataloging every detail.
And then his pupils constricted.
He saw him.
In one corner of the wrestling mats, a not-so-tall but massively built man in a headguard was chain-throwing his sparring partner again and again. Each throw seemed effortless yet crushing, a wave breaking on a helpless shore. His oppressive style, relentless pressure, and seamless transitions between grips carried an unmistakable power.
Khabib Nurmagomedov.
The future undefeated Lightweight King. The Eagle.
Right now Khabib had only two UFC fights under his belt. His name wasn't yet uttered with awe. But Yogan knew what was coming—the suffocating dominance, the unstoppable wrestling, the legend.
In another corner, Yogan's gaze caught on a tall, impossibly handsome man doing explosive strength drills: Luke Rockhold, the future Middleweight Champion.
These men had once been pixels on a screen to him—highlight reels, Wikipedia records, Instagram clips. Now they were flesh and blood, sweat glistening under the gym lights. This was not just a gym. This was the cradle of champions.
Yogan's heart hammered faster, not from fear but from a rising, uncontrollable excitement. He had come to the right place.
He forced himself to take a long breath, tamping down the thrill. Then he straightened his back and walked toward a thick-shouldered, mustachioed middle-aged man who looked, as people often joked, like a mountain ram: Javier Mendez, founder and head coach of AKA, one of the most respected minds in MMA.
"Hello, sir," Yogan said in careful, fluent English.
Javier stopped mid-instruction with another student, turned, and blinked at the Asian face in front of him. A tall, lean young man stood there, his eyes clear and determined, dressed in clean sportswear and carrying a backpack.
"Hello, son. Can I help you?" Javier's tone was polite but firm. "This is a private gym, not open for tours."
"I'm not here for a tour." Yogan reached into his bag and produced a USB stick. "My name is Yogan. I'm from China. I'm an MMA fighter, and I want to join AKA."
For a heartbeat Javier just stared. He had seen countless young dreamers before—men brimming with bravado but blind to the reality of elite training. Asian faces were particularly rare here.
He took the USB stick but didn't plug it in immediately. Instead, he gave Yogan a slow once-over. The kid had good height and reach, yes, but he was clearly under-muscled. Power, at first glance, seemed lacking.
"Kid, do you know what this place is?" Javier asked at last. "The education here could break you."
"I know," Yogan said without hesitation. "That's why I came."
The steadiness in his voice—calm but unshakable—was unusual for someone his age. It piqued Javier's curiosity.
He waved to a nearby assistant. "Plug this into the laptop," he said, handing over the USB.
Minutes later the assistant returned, balancing the open laptop like an offering. His expression was faintly surprised.
Javier tilted the screen toward himself. A compilation of Yogan's six matches back in China began to play.
The production was rough—simple venues, dim lighting—but within seconds the footage had Javier leaning forward. On screen, the slim young fighter moved like a phantom, slipping out of traps, countering with surgical precision. He evaded heavier men as though their punches were mirages. His strikes landed with crisp finality: a guard knocked out cold with one punch, a retired boxing champion forced to submit, a Sanda titleholder dropped by a perfectly timed kick. Each sequence, set to a rising soundtrack and slowed at just the right moments, was viscerally impressive.
Javier's initial amusement faded into seriousness, then into something like respect. Yes, the opponents were low-level. He could see that at once. But what he was watching in Yogan was not the opposition. It was the instinct.
Distance management baked into the bones.
Reaction speed like a whip.
A calm, tactical mind beyond his years.
Those things cannot be taught.
Here was talent—raw, God-given talent.
He closed the laptop and met Yogan's eyes again, his gaze different now.
"The video is nice," he said slowly, "but videos can mislead. If you want to join us, you have to prove you're at least as good as the video shows."
He pointed to the Octagon.
"Go change your clothes and put on protective gear. I want to see your abilities with my own eyes."
It was a test.
Yogan's pulse jumped. He nodded quickly and strode toward the locker room.
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A few minutes later he emerged wearing black shorts, 450-gram gloves, and shin guards. His body looked wiry but coiled, like a bow drawn tight.
Javier had already lined up the first stage of evaluation: pad work. One of AKA's senior Muay Thai coaches—an older man with tree-trunk forearms—was waiting in the center of the mat holding focus pads.
"Use all your strength," the coach said simply. "Show me your combinations."
Yogan rolled his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and let the muscle memory of countless pad sessions flow through him. His previous life's training fused with the hyper-responsive body of this life.
"Crack!"
His lightning-fast left jab snapped the pad dead center.
Then a straight right, a left hook, and a high right kick.
"Snap! Slap! Slap! Boom!"
Each strike landed with whip-crack precision. The rhythm was liquid—fast, accurate, and sharp.
The coach's eyebrows rose despite himself. He had been expecting sloppy, frantic striking. Instead, this was textbook technique delivered at high speed. The power wasn't yet overwhelming, but the timing and flow were already at a professional level.
Javier watched from the side, nodding slowly. No hint of backyard brawling here. This was a disciplined foundation.
"Okay," he said after a minute. "Next item."
He turned toward a tall, broad-shouldered fighter who was wrapping his hands near the cage. "Kyle, get in here. Spar with the kid. Standing strikes only, thirty percent power."
Kyle—an active UFC middleweight known for heavy hands and a granite chin—grinned when he saw Yogan's lean frame. He clearly thought this would be light work.
The two stepped into the Octagon and touched gloves.
The spar began.
Kyle circled lazily, testing with a jab. Yogan's eyes tracked every twitch of his shoulders. As soon as the punch extended, Yogan's head slipped off-line by a hair's breadth, his own jab flicking out like a fencer's foil to tap Kyle's chin.
Kyle blinked. The kid was faster than he looked.
They circled again. Kyle threw a heavier one-two. This time Yogan ducked under, pivoted, and landed a clean counter right to the body, sliding out before Kyle could answer. His footwork was light, almost silent.
The grin faded from Kyle's face. He tightened his guard, began throwing real combinations.
Yogan responded with crisp angles, sharp counters, and a sense of distance that made him feel untouchable. Even at thirty percent power, the rhythm became electric. The other fighters around the cage began to watch.
Javier folded his arms, expression unreadable. He wasn't looking at Kyle's strikes anymore; he was watching Yogan's eyes—how calm they stayed, how they measured range, how they predicted movement. This was not a wild prodigy. This was a young man with a plan.
After a few exchanges, Javier raised a hand. "Enough."
Kyle stepped back, shaking his head and grinning despite himself. "Kid's slippery," he muttered.
Yogan exhaled through his nose, steady. He hadn't tried to win. He'd tried to show.
Javier walked into the cage. "Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all."
He paused, then extended a hand. "Welcome to AKA."
For Yogan, the words rang louder than the gym noise. This was the first gate opening—the beginning of the real fight.
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