Kyle came out swinging. He didn't hold anything back, unleashing a rhythm and tempo that belonged to a seasoned professional fighter. His fists cut through the air with speed and precision, each blow a calculated probe meant to tear down Yogan's defenses.
But something strange happened.
No matter how fast Kyle punched, Yogan evaded with only the slightest tilt of his head or a subtle shift of his shoulders. Every power shot landed on empty air, every hook and cross missing by a hair's breadth. It was as if Kyle were fighting a phantom—someone who wasn't quite there, who dissolved like mist the moment a strike came close.
"Hey! Kid, running away won't be enough!" Kyle barked, frustration creeping into his voice. He tightened his fists and increased the intensity, muscles rippling as he launched a hard 1-2-3 combination straight at Yogan's face.
This time, Yogan didn't backpedal.
He stepped in instead of out, his stocky frame arching backward like a flexible toy. Using an extreme "iron bridge" stance—something between a backbend and a lean—he absorbed and parried the first two punches, his forearms brushing them aside with mechanical precision.
Then came Kyle's third hook.
At the exact moment Kyle committed to it, Yogan's body sprang back, the stored energy in his legs releasing like coiled springs. A lightning-fast backhand shot out from Yogan's shoulder, snapping toward Kyle's jaw like a venomous snake striking.
The punch wasn't devastating in force, but it was humiliating. It landed flush, a clean pop that sent Kyle's head jerking to the side.
Kyle froze, stunned.
At ringside, Javier's pupils shrank to pinpoints. The veteran coach had seen countless fighters, but what he was witnessing now was on another level.
He'd been watching Yogan's eyes the entire time.
Even when Yogan leaned back to dodge, his eyelids didn't flicker. His gaze remained locked not on Kyle's fists but on his shoulders and chest—the true indicators of where each punch would originate. Yogan wasn't merely reacting; he was reading Kyle, predicting the next strike before it left the chamber.
What kind of dynamic vision and reflexes are these? Javier thought, his throat dry.
"Fifty percent power!" he called out, voice trembling slightly.
Kyle blinked and nodded, his expression shifting from annoyance to seriousness. He squared his stance, finally treating the Chinese newcomer as a real rival. The tempo of the fight rose again, strikes snapping out sharper, faster, heavier.
But the result didn't change.
Yogan remained untouchable. He slipped, rolled, and weaved through Kyle's combinations like water flowing around rocks. Not only was he evading everything, he was also sneaking in counterpunches—short, precise shots that tapped Kyle's face and ribs, leaving faint red marks and a pounding sense of frustration.
Though the strikes weren't heavy, each one landed exactly in the gaps of Kyle's offense, throwing off his rhythm and making his heart race.
"Okay! Stop!" Javier finally called, cutting off what had become a one-sided mockery.
Kyle stepped back, his hair mussed, sweat dripping down his temples. His eyes, once confident, now held only shock and confusion.
Javier, meanwhile, felt his pulse quicken with excitement. He looked at Yogan as if he'd stumbled across a lost treasure, a new continent waiting to be charted. But there was still one test left.
He knew from experience that many Asian fighters possessed extraordinary striking but a hidden vulnerability when it came to wrestling. If Yogan had such a weakness, it needed to be exposed now.
He turned and shouted across the gym:
"Khabib! Come here for a minute!"
The sound cut through the thudding of bags and the grunts of sparring partners. Across the mat, a heavily built Dagestani wrestler paused mid-drill and glanced over.
"Coach, what's up?" Khabib asked, wiping sweat from his beard as he approached.
"Wrestle this kid for a round," Javier said, pointing at Yogan.
Khabib's dark eyes flicked to Yogan. He nodded politely.
Yogan's lips curled slightly. Was this really happening? A close encounter with the future invincible king so soon? He could almost hear the crowd of his past life whispering disbelief.
Neither man wore gloves. They stepped into the center of the Octagon, barehanded, barefoot, the mats smelling faintly of disinfectant and sweat. The rest of the gym slowed to a stop, fighters and trainers sensing something unusual about to unfold.
Javier gave the order.
With barely a pause, Khabib exploded forward like a leopard, shooting for the legs. His takedown was textbook—swift, precise, merciless. In his previous life, Yogan knew, a wrestler of this caliber would have flattened him eight times out of ten.
But not now.
The instant Khabib's shoulder dropped and his center of gravity shifted, Yogan's Godlike Reflexes triggered. His legs snapped backward, spreading wide in a lightning-fast sprawl. His upper body pressed hard on Khabib's back, countering the drive.
For the first time, surprise flickered on Khabib's face. This takedown should have been certain. Yet Yogan had not only defended it but done so cleanly and decisively.
Khabib reset immediately, standing tall and trying to switch to a single-leg. But Yogan was already moving, his body slippery as a loach. He twisted, shifted, and escaped back to his feet before Khabib could connect.
The next two minutes became a showcase: Khabib chaining one attack after another—double-legs, single-legs, body locks, trips—but every time, at the critical moment, Yogan neutralized the attempt with sheer speed and instinct.
His defenses weren't polished. In fact, to the trained eye, they looked clumsy, raw, almost amateurish. But he was simply too fast. He disrupted Khabib's balance before the throw could be completed, forcing the world-class wrestler to reset again and again.
The gym fell silent.
One by one, fighters stopped hitting the bags, stopped shadowboxing, stopped rolling on the mats. They crowded around the Octagon, eyes wide. They couldn't believe what they were seeing: the wrestling monster from Dagestan unable to complete a single takedown against this seemingly ordinary Chinese kid.
Javier's breathing grew heavy. His mind raced.
I've found gold, he thought. A flawless, uncut gem with historic reflexes and top-tier fighting IQ. If I give him AKA's wrestling and power system, what kind of fighter will he become?
He couldn't even imagine it.
"Stop!" he called, breaking off the audition.
Khabib stepped back, sweat running down his neck, and gave Yogan a small nod of respect. Yogan straightened, chest rising and falling, but his eyes were calm.
Javier climbed onto the edge of the Octagon. He looked at Yogan with unprecedented seriousness.
"Kid," he said, "welcome to AKA. From today on, you're a member of our professional fighter team."
Yogan glanced around the gym at the astonished gazes of future world champions. He felt a flicker of satisfaction. This was the right gamble, the right place. This was the Holy Land of mixed martial arts, and he had just taken the first—and most critical—step.
Being accepted into the AKA pro team was only the beginning.
He immediately realized that Coach Javier's earlier warning—"The training here can kill you"—wasn't an exaggeration. It was a promise.
He didn't go back to community college. He took a leave of absence. The acceptance letter he'd worked so hard for had served its purpose; now he needed to devote one hundred percent of his time and energy to a new kind of education.
His life transformed overnight into one of Spartan asceticism.
At five in the morning, before dawn, he entered the gym's conditioning area, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and began his warm-up and strength training. Squats, deadlifts, kettlebell swings—movements meant to build the engine of a fighter's body.
The mornings were for wrestling and ground drills. Three hours of grueling takedowns, scrambles, wall-work, and positional sparring. His body ached, but he learned to sprawl faster, to dig underhooks deeper, to fight for every inch of balance.
Afternoons were for striking—three hours of Muay Thai knees, boxing combinations, kickboxing drills, and sparring sessions with partners who hit like trucks.
When evening came and everyone else dragged their tired bodies toward the locker rooms, Yogan stayed behind. He worked another hour on the heavy bag or the speed bag, his fists blurring as he chased precision and timing.
The intense workload—over eight hours a day—left him feeling as if every cell in his body were burning, tearing apart, and rebuilding itself.
AKA's training style was notorious. Fighters called it "cultivating Gu," like raising a venomous insect by forcing it to devour others until only the strongest survived. There was no gentle training here, no comfort zone, only the jungle's most ruthless law: survival through relentless pressure.
If you wanted to get stronger, you had to stand toe-to-toe with monsters every day.
And that's exactly what Yogan did.
He had crossed an ocean, gambled his future, and walked into the heart of the MMA world. The eyes of champions were on him, some skeptical, some curious, some already wary. He could feel the weight of expectation pressing down like a mountain.
But in his chest, instead of fear, there was only fire.
This was just the beginning.
---