The early days at AKA were hell for Yogan.
His legendary Godlike Reflexes gave him a decisive edge when counter-punching on his feet, but the moment the fight hit the mat, that advantage shrank dramatically. Ground wrestling and grappling were a different universe. Against ordinary partners he could still scramble out, but when the man across from him was Khabib, the gap felt like a canyon.
Whenever Khabib closed the distance, wrapped his arms around Yogan, and locked his hands, it felt as though a python had coiled around his body and begun to squeeze. Technique, leverage, and raw strength fused into a single, crushing pressure.
Time after time, the huge differences in power, experience, and craft dumped Yogan onto the mat. He was pinned, mounted, controlled, and "submitted" over and over. Khabib's ground-and-pound stayed polite and under control in practice, but even soft strikes landing from top position were humiliating. Being stuck beneath someone, unable to move, forced to absorb blows you couldn't stop—it was a suffocating helplessness Yogan had never known in his life.
During one particularly brutal session, Khabib smothered him for the entire five-minute round. Yogan tried to shrimp, bridge, and spin free, but every escape was stuffed. He didn't stand back up until the buzzer sounded.
When he finally rose from the mat, his muscles screamed. Sweat stung scratches on his forehead; thin lines of blood oozed down toward his eyebrows. Around the cage, teammates exchanged looks.
Some eyes held sympathy.
Others glimmered with schadenfreude.
Still others carried a quiet certainty: this "Reflex Genius" from China won't last. He'll break soon under this kind of training.
They were wrong.
Yogan wiped the blood from his brow and showed no disappointment, no despair. He walked straight up to Khabib, looked him in the eye, and in halting Russian said, "Spasibo—thank you."
Then, in serious, careful English mixed with gestures, he asked, "How… shift your center of gravity… crossover just now?"
Khabib blinked. For a heartbeat he saw in this 18-year-old a reflection of himself years earlier—a pure hunger for combat, unclouded by ego. His stern face softened. Unusually, he smiled and began explaining, using a blend of English, Russian, and pantomime to demonstrate the small weight transfer that had broken Yogan's posture.
From that day forward, Yogan became Khabib's "little shadow."
He trailed him between drills, watching every detail: the footwork, the grip fights, the transitions between rides and pins. He was like a dry sponge soaking up wrestling and grappling technique.
Here his reflexes revealed a second gift: learning speed. Because he could perceive minute shifts of weight more clearly than anyone else, he also predicted an opponent's next action sooner. That made him a nightmare to hold down once he understood the mechanics.
Bit by bit he built a defensive system. When an opponent changed position, he recognized the gap an instant earlier and escaped. When someone tried to flatten him, he felt where their force was applied and countered before the pressure peaked.
His offense was still crude, but his defense grew impenetrable at astonishing speed. He was like a video-game character who had maxed out "dodge" and "block" and was now unlocking "counter-attack."
Outside the mat he attacked his weaknesses just as hard. Together with AKA's head strength-and-conditioning coach, Yogan devised a scientific program: high-protein, high-carbohydrate meals in precise portions, paired with heavy, high-intensity lifting.
Like a thirsty seedling meeting sweet rain, his 18-year-old body exploded into secondary growth. In only three months he stretched to 187 centimeters. His weight climbed from 72 to nearly 80 kilos, every kilogram hard, lean muscle.
He no longer resembled the wiry "bamboo pole" who had stepped off the plane. His shoulders broadened; his back thickened; his once-slender thighs now carried ropey lines of explosive power. Simply standing still, he looked like a top-tier featherweight.
Strength transformed his technique. His punches remained laser-accurate but now carried genuine thud. His low kicks could numb the legs of heavier teammates. More importantly, he was no longer a passive wrestling dummy. He could sprawl under light-heavyweight shots, bounce back to his feet, and even surprise partners with the occasional takedown of his own, using speed as the spearpoint.
Sweat and extraordinary effort earned him respect. No one at the gym looked down on him for his nationality or his humble beginnings anymore. Teammates stayed late to do extra rounds with him.
Coach Javier saw something even rarer: not just talent, but will. He began treating Yogan as a key project, coaching him individually, standing at his side and teaching tactical concepts one-on-one.
One afternoon, after a hard training block, Javier called Yogan into his office.
"How long have you been in America now?" the coach asked.
"Four months, Aries," Yogan replied, using Javier's sign name with a small smile.
"Mm." Javier nodded. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a folder, and slid it across the desk. "Take a look."
Yogan opened it. Inside lay a fight contract.
Promoter: Legacy Fighting Championship—the UFC's unofficial "draft," a proving ground where countless champions had first made their names.
Printed neatly on the page was his new professional identity:
> Yogan "The Flash"
The nickname was Javier's idea. After watching those unbelievable reaction speeds, "Flash" fit better than "Kung Fu Dasheng" and played perfectly in English.
His opponent: Juan Archuleta, a Mexican-American fighter known on the regional circuit for a relentless pace, solid wrestling, and an 8-2 record.
"Are you ready?" Javier asked quietly. "This will be your first professional fight in America. Your opponent is tough. Not easy."
Yogan studied the unfamiliar name. No tension showed in his eyes—only the eager glint of a beast about to be released. He raised his head, met Javier's gaze, and said simply:
"Teacher, I have been ready for a long time."
The date was set one month away. Houston, Texas.
That month became the most intense training stretch of his life. AKA's entire technical team rallied around his debut, building a camp with military precision. They recruited sparring partners who mimicked Juan's style and simulated every scenario daily.
Juan was a classic grinder: tireless takedowns, endless pressure, finishing with ground-and-pound or rear-naked chokes. Beating him would be the ultimate test of Yogan's four months of wrestling immersion.
Every day Yogan devoted at least two hours solely to defense and offense against the cage. He let teammates pin him, learning how to build a wide base, dig underhooks, and escape along the fence. In the tight space of the Octagon, his reflexes shone again. He claimed advantageous angles a heartbeat before his partner, or slipped through gaps when they flexed their strength.
Meanwhile his weight cut was dialed in. Under the featherweight limit, he timed his diet and dehydration perfectly. On weigh-in day he hit 145 pounds (66 kg) clean. After rehydration and nutrition he rebounded to 78 kilos, giving him a physical edge over the division—187 cm tall with a 189 cm reach.
When Yogan boarded the plane to Houston with his coaching staff, he was no longer the slightly green kid who had walked into AKA four months earlier. His eyes were calm and sharp, his whole being radiating a quiet confidence and killing intent forged by countless rounds of suffering.
The cage door in Texas would soon close behind him, and the world would finally see what "The Flash" had become.
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