Now.
Eight weeks of blood, sweat, and endless drills—every repetition, every bruise, all for this fleeting half-second. In that moment inside the Octagon, the world narrowed to a single opportunity.
The instant Miller lowered his head and his guard opened, Yogan did not retreat, did not sprawl defensively, did not even hesitate. Instead, he stepped into his opponent.
That one step went against every conventional wrestling and striking principle. The commentators gasped; the crowd froze.
Like a venomous snake uncoiling from the shadows, Yogan's left arm shot forward, lightning-fast, threading under Miller's armpit and snapping up around his neck. Almost simultaneously his right hand clamped onto his own left wrist, locking everything into place with mechanical precision.
The deadly technique he had sketched hundreds of times on the tactical board, the weapon he had drilled thousands of times with Khabib during predawn practices—the standing guillotine choke—was finally unleashed.
Miller's eyes went wide. In his worst nightmares he had never imagined that a relative newcomer would dare challenge his domain, the ground game where he reigned supreme. He tried to pull back but the trap had already sprung.
Yogan's body latched to him like iron vines gripping a tree. The core strength he had rebuilt after brutal weight-cutting surged through his muscles. His biceps turned to cables of steel, squeezing, compressing.
Air vanished from Miller's lungs. A suffocating pressure clawed at his throat. His face flushed a deep purple, and panic flickered behind his eyes. It felt not only as if his windpipe were closing but as if something had reached inside to squeeze his soul.
He thrashed, legs kicking wildly, searching for leverage to upset Yogan's balance. Yet Yogan's base was as immovable as Mount Tai. With a small pivot he cinched the hold tighter, swung his hips, and jumped—wrapping his legs around Miller's body.
The crowd erupted as the position transitioned into the flying guillotine. Yogan's full body weight now hung from Miller's neck, converting the choke into a vise.
"Tap! Tap or you'll go out!" Coach Javier screamed from cageside, his voice hoarse with excitement.
Miller's consciousness blurred. Blackness crept at the edges of his vision. His chest burned with fire. This could not be happening—he was a veteran, a specialist. This was supposed to be his fight. Yet instinct for survival finally overrode pride.
With the last of his strength he reached out and slapped Yogan's back, once, twice, three times—"Smack! Smack! Smack!"—signaling surrender.
Referee Herb Dean dove between them. Yogan immediately released the choke. Miller collapsed to the canvas like a puppet with cut strings, sucking air greedily, his eyes full of shock and disbelief. He had looked into the abyss and barely crawled back out.
For a heartbeat the entire Philips Arena fell silent, as if stunned by what it had just witnessed. Then, like a dam bursting, cheers, screams, and applause roared out, louder and more electric than anything from Las Vegas weeks earlier.
In the center of the Octagon Yogan did not leap onto the cage or roar with triumph. He simply stood, breathing slow and deep, eyes fixed on Miller. Each exhale seemed to purge the ghosts of his previous life, the pressure of rebirth, and the fatigue of eight weeks of hellish training.
What filled him now was not only victory but also release—a quiet, resonant peace deeper than excitement.
Commentator Joe Rogan practically ran into the cage, microphone in hand. "Yogan! Oh my God! You just finished your opponent in his own field of expertise—you tore apart the spider's web! Tell us, how did you do it?"
Yogan took the mic, his voice still raspy from exertion but carrying clearly through the sound system:
> "Before this fight everyone said the ground was my weakness. So I embraced it. When you stop fearing the abyss, the abyss loses its power over you.
I want to thank my team—everyone at AKA, Coach Javier, DC—but especially Khabib Nurmagomedov. He pushed me to the brink over and over and taught me how to come back smiling."
The camera cut to Khabib at cageside. The usually stoic Dagestani allowed himself a rare, genuine smile.
Backstage, DC could no longer contain his excitement. He hoisted Yogan onto his shoulders and spun in the narrow corridor, singing off-key at the top of his lungs. Coach Javier's eyes were damp as he hugged Yogan tightly. "Well done, son. Well done."
Moments later the locker room door burst open. Dana White strode in holding a check, grinning like a proud uncle. He punched Yogan's shoulder playfully.
"Kid! Fantastic job! Another fifty-thousand 'Performance of the Night' bonus! What did I tell you? You're not a problem—you're the answer to the whole featherweight division. Get ready for a top-ten opponent!"
That night the team gave ESPN a brief interview, then declined other media requests. David Chen, ever the planner, used his contacts to reserve one of Atlanta's most authentic Chinese restaurants, booking a private room for a celebratory feast—the meal Yogan had dreamed about through weeks of weight-cutting.
When the food arrived there was no steak or salad. Instead: steaming bowls of red-oil boiled beef, sweet-and-sour pork glazed in golden syrup, fragrant mapo tofu, and mountains of white rice.
Yogan picked up a slice of beef with his chopsticks. The spicy broth clung to the meat as he lifted it to his mouth. The moment it touched his tongue, the long-lost taste of home flooded his senses. Warmth spread from his mouth to his stomach, easing organs battered by weeks of dieting.
Here he was no longer "The Flash" inside the Octagon but just a Chinese kid thousands of miles from home, aching for the flavors of his childhood. This meal felt like the truest reward of all.
DC and Khabib, sweating from the spice, fumbled with chopsticks but kept eating, chasing each fiery bite with gulps of ice water. Their laughter filled the room. It was Team Yogan's first true family dinner—warm, noisy, genuine.
---
Rankings and Reality
A few days later, back in San Jose for recovery training, the new UFC rankings dropped on Tuesday evening. Coach Javier handed his phone to Yogan. The featherweight list flashed on the screen.
Alongside names like Ricardo Lamas, Chad Mendes, and Frankie Edgar, a newcomer now appeared:
#15 – Yogan "Flash"
He had officially stepped into the hunting grounds of the sport's most dangerous predators.
Almost simultaneously David Chen sent Yogan a screenshot from social media. Max Holloway's Twitter had posted only one word, tagging Yogan's account: "Interesting…"
Yogan set the phone down without a flicker of satisfaction. He walked to the gym window and looked at the "monsters" still grinding on the mats below. Fifteenth place was not a summit but a base camp—five thousand meters on the way to Everest. Only now did the real storms, the hypoxic zones, the deadly paths to the top, begin to open beneath his feet.
The impact of his victory over Cole Miller reverberated faster and louder than even David Chen had predicted. Sponsors who had never returned calls were suddenly flooding his inbox.
Three days after the fight David booked Yogan for an entire afternoon in his small apartment, stacks of papers spread across the table. "Yogan, congratulations. We're officially in the fast lane now."
He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, eyes glittering with excitement. "First, energy drinks. Monster Energy is offering eight hundred thousand for two years plus global extreme-sports promotion. Huge visibility."
Another file slid across the table. "Second, Ascent—a new premium protein brand. Five hundred thousand for two years, but they'll develop a co-branded flavor with you and support your future expansion into China."
Javier listened quietly. He didn't understand the business jargon but could see what it meant: Yogan's value was skyrocketing.
Yogan studied both documents. Monster's green claw mark was iconic in the UFC, bold and rebellious. Ascent's branding was clean, professional, elite.
"I'll take Ascent," Yogan said without hesitation.
David blinked. "It's three hundred thousand less."
"David," Yogan replied evenly, "my nickname 'Flash' stands for speed, precision, calm. Monster's style is rage. Our Dao is different. Ascent's philosophy matches how I want to position my image. And their long-term plan shows more sincerity."
David stared, impressed yet again by the clarity of someone so young. "Understood. I'll negotiate to push the fee up to six hundred thousand and accelerate the co-brand schedule."
With the biggest sponsorship decided, David brought up the next challenge—the one that made both Javier and DC frown.
"Yogan, we need to talk about your public persona."
His tone turned serious. "Your technique is flawless and your image healthy. But in the UFC, fighting well isn't enough. To sell pay-per-views you need themes, rivalries, polarization. A bland 'good guy' doesn't sell."
He tapped his tablet, bringing up a compilation of Conor McGregor's notorious press-conference sound bites. "This is the most successful business plan in the UFC. Every word he speaks turns into millions. Dana White admires your talent but wants you to 'show your true nature'—be bolder on social media, trash-talk more, use stronger language. It accelerates title shots and revenue."
DC shook his head. "That's not Yogan. It won't work."
David spread his hands. "I know, DC. But this isn't just personality; it's business. With the Chinese market behind him, Yogan could become a phenomenon—multi-million dollar deals instead of hundreds of thousands."
His words unlocked a door in Yogan's memory, one lined with shadows from another lifetime.
David, thinking the young fighter was hesitating, pressed on. "Sometimes you have to pretend for greater success. It's just business…"
"David," Yogan interrupted softly yet firmly, "this isn't in my nature. I can't do it."
"But—"
"I know exactly what you're saying." Yogan's eyes seemed to look past David, seeing another time and place. "I understand the commercial value. But I don't need it."
The room fell silent. DC exhaled slowly. Javier's mouth curled into the faintest smile. In that moment Yogan stood not only as an athlete but as someone who knew precisely who he was.
---
Yogan had broken the spider's web inside the cage. Now he was weaving his own—thread by deliberate thread—off it.
---