Late at night, in his San Jose apartment, Yogan quietly closed his laptop.
The glowing numbers on the screen—ten million dollars—flickered for a moment before vanishing as the screen went dark. Along with them disappeared the newly established trust fund documents he had prepared for his parents.
That warm current of satisfaction rose again inside him, but he didn't let it carry him away. It was a powerful boost for his journey, yes, but he understood better than anyone that this moment of triumph was only a milestone. From now on, he had to once again become the cold, disciplined, and relentless machine hungry for victory that he'd been forging himself into.
The joy of victory, he reminded himself, was like a high-calorie dessert: you could savor it for a second, but never truly indulge. Over-satisfaction bred complacency, and complacency was poison in the unforgiving arena of ultimate combat.
He didn't go to sleep. Instead, he reopened the video recording of his fight. This time, he wasn't watching his own movements; he was studying the reactions of Joe Rogan and the commentators at cageside. He turned the volume up and forced himself to hear their words from an outsider's perspective:
> "…Yogan's sense of distance is incredible! Glenn looks like a Minotaur trapped in a maze, never able to find his target!"
> "Look at his footwork—light, efficient, hardly a wasted movement. This is a master-class performance!"
> "But let's be honest: Glenn's wrestling threat isn't top-tier. If Yogan were facing someone like Mendes or Edgar, could he still maintain that composure? I'm not sure yet."
Each comment cut into him like a scalpel, dissecting his strengths and weaknesses. He sat motionless, filtering out every word of praise and engraving only the doubts and criticisms into his memory.
"Wrestling…" he murmured to himself.
It had been his pain point in his previous life and the mountain he was determined to climb in this one. He opened an encrypted document and began typing a post-fight summary:
"The flying knee knockout was fantastic, but it was an opportunity created by my opponent's mistake. If he hadn't rushed in recklessly, the fight might have gone much longer. There was a noticeable fluctuation in my stamina in the fourth minute; after my heart rate spiked, my recovery time was 0.3 seconds slower than planned. That cannot happen. Against a true champion, even a small fluctuation can be fatal."
"The low kick has enough power, but my leg-pulling defense is flawed. My jab is accurate but lacks variety. The next training phase must focus on: 1) Wrestling offense and defense transitions; 2) Cardiopulmonary endurance at peak levels; 3) Rhythm changes in combination punching."
When he finished typing the last word, a new and more rigorous training plan had already formed in his head.
---
A few mornings later, when Yogan stepped into the AKA training gym again, his "victor's aura" had vanished. In its place was a sharper, quieter focus, like the edge of a blade being honed.
A unique "welcome ceremony" awaited him. While he was warming up, Daniel Cormier—DC—strolled around like a happy grizzly bear, humming a tune. He suddenly slapped Yogan's shoulder with his giant palm, almost knocking him off balance.
"Hey, Flash! Five-thousand-dollar bonus—shouldn't you treat the whole team to a feast?" DC winked, half teasing, half testing.
Yogan straightened, smiled faintly, and was about to answer when Coach Javier, standing nearby with a playbook, spoke without looking up:
"DC, forget it. This kid spent his money the first night."
DC blinked. "Gone so soon? Kid, did you hit the casino in Vegas? That's a bad habit!"
Before Yogan could explain, Javier lifted his head, a half-smile on his face.
"He didn't go to a casino. He gave me twenty thousand in cash and said it was for the team. I told him it wasn't necessary, but he insisted."
The gym went quiet for a second. Normally, fighters shared ten to twenty percent of their prize money with the team, but only after taxes and expenses. It was rare for someone—especially a newcomer—to hand over almost half of his pre-tax bonus immediately. This wasn't just money; it was attitude and respect.
The playful expression faded from DC's face. He looked Yogan up and down, then approached like an older brother. Instead of another heavy slap, he ruffled Yogan's hair roughly and said in a deep voice:
"Son, well done. Not just in the cage—outside of it too."
Yogan wasn't used to such closeness, but he nodded and replied, "So, DC, no money for treats this time. Next time, I'll use my earnings for physical therapy."
For a second DC looked stunned. Then he burst out laughing—hearty and genuine. "Good boy! I'm waiting!"
In the harsh world of AKA, where power and respect ruled, Yogan's generosity bought him something far more valuable than a single knockout: genuine respect.
---
Training intensified. Khabib Nurmagomedov didn't say a word; he simply walked toward Yogan and locked him in another grueling wrestling session. Khabib's pressure was like a living net of muscle and will, tightening with each movement. Every time they grappled, Yogan felt as though the Dagestani champion might crush his bones.
During one scramble, Yogan used his Godlike Reflexes to seize a fleeting chance to escape side control. But Khabib twisted his body at an impossible angle, dropped his shoulder onto Yogan's neck, and locked his legs like iron clamps. Instantly Yogan was dragged back into the pit.
After training, Yogan didn't complain. Lying on the mat, lungs wheezing like a broken bellows, he forced himself up, walked over, and asked breathlessly:
"My move just now… how did you guess my direction?"
Khabib looked into the young man's bloodshot eyes and, for the first time, recognized a true seeker—a fellow ascetic chasing the limits of combat.
"Your body can lie," Khabib said in his thick Dagestani accent, "but your center of gravity cannot."
From that day forward, their relationship changed. They were no longer just teammates; they were dao-companions—both teacher and friend. After each main training session, they stayed an extra hour on the mat. Yogan helped Khabib sharpen his striking; Khabib taught Yogan the secrets of Dagestani wrestling.
---
Meanwhile, Yogan launched his second plan: Team Yogan.
He met Chinese-American sports lawyer David Chen in a quiet café. Stirring his coffee, the teenager spoke with the calm precision of a seasoned executive.
"David, I don't just need contract reviews," Yogan said. "I want you to build a business empire around the 'Flash' brand. Register my personal trademark. Choose the best sponsorships. Handle all my media and legal affairs. You'll manage everything except training and fights."
Looking at this eighteen-year-old outlining a grand vision, David pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. Behind the lenses, his eyes glowed with shock and excitement. He knew he had chosen the right client.
Not long after, Yogan approached Coach Javier with another surprise. He offered to invest three hundred thousand dollars to upgrade the gym with state-of-the-art rehabilitation and therapy equipment.
"Coach, this is my home," Yogan explained. "The team's strength is my strength. Cain's knees, DC's back—they all need the best therapy. It benefits us all."
Javier stared at his disciple's earnest face, moved. This Chinese kid was winning everyone's heart in his own way.
---
Life entered an extreme Spartan mode. At five a.m., while San Jose streets lay under morning fog, Yogan was already on a ten-kilometer run, his silhouette ghosting through the quiet streets. Back at his small apartment, he weighed every gram of food: 120 grams of chicken breast, 150 grams of broccoli, 80 grams of brown rice. Every number meticulously planned by his nutritionist.
Mornings were hellish wrestling and jiu-jitsu with Khabib, pushing his physical limits under relentless pressure. Afternoons were striking drills: three- and four-punch combinations on the move, each strike landing on the exact same target on his sparring partner's head. Evenings, after everyone else left, Yogan stayed alone in the weight room for another hour.
Before bed, he didn't scroll through his phone. Instead, he turned on the TV and watched American shows without subtitles, forcing himself to improve his English. It was his only rest of the day.
Though he had teammates, cultural and language barriers left him feeling lonely. Yet he embraced that loneliness.
"Solitude sharpens my focus," he told himself. "Away from the noise, I can hear my soul."
"I lost my previous life to injuries, to impulsiveness and temptation after fame. This time I will not repeat my mistakes. Every step must be solid as rock."
---
While Yogan trained in silence, currents stirred outside. David Chen arranged an exclusive ESPN interview for him on MMA Hour.
"Yogan," host Ariel Helwani asked, "your UFC debut was excellent. But the whole Featherweight division is questioning your ground game. Is that your weakness?"
Yogan looked calmly into the camera. "Every skill has room for improvement. I came to AKA to train with the world's best wrestlers and turn so-called weaknesses into weapons. Toughness isn't recklessness. Wisdom is the strongest weapon in a fight."
For the first time, North American audiences glimpsed the calm intelligence beneath the young Eastern fighter's exterior. The image of a "wise warrior" began to take root.
But the wolves on social media smelled blood.
Dennis Bermudez, ranked twelfth in the Featherweight division, retweeted Yogan's interview: "Easier said than done. Hope your takedown defense is as strong as your mouth."
Heavy-handed veteran Jeremy Stephens went further, tweeting: "Flashy boy, don't hide behind me. Dare to fight a real man?"
While speculation raged, UFC matchmaker Sean Shelby called Javier's office.
"Javier, your Chinese kid is brave. Since he's eager for a test, we'll give him a special one. How about Cole Miller, 'The Spider'? Co-main event at the next UFC Fight Night."
Javier's eyes narrowed. He knew exactly what that meant. Cole Miller wasn't a can to pad your record—he was a nightmare. Tall, long-armed, a ground game like a spider's web. This was the UFC's way of testing whether the "Flash" was real.
If Javier refused, Yogan would be branded a coward.
When Javier told Yogan the news, he expected a frown or a flash of anxiety. But the young man's reaction stunned him.
No sign of fear—only eyes glinting with a hunter's excitement. Yogan simply said two words:
"Very good."
---