Technological progress had begun to seep even into the ceremonial side of combat sports—new ways of testing, recording and recognising fighters. But at AKA, tradition still reigned in the core curriculum. Alongside boxing and wrestling, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu was treated as essential.
The gym had brought in Grand Master Leandro Vieira, a black belt from Brazil whose name was respected on every mat. Vieira cared little for rigid belt tests or pageantry. His obsession was practical combat—technique that worked inside the cage.
Two months after Yogan's victory over Miller, he attended a routine Jiu-Jitsu class. That day he rolled with a teammate holding a purple belt and weighing nearly twenty pounds more. The five-minute spar looked like a mismatch on paper. Yet time after time Yogan stuffed the heavier man's submission attempts, using his exceptional torso strength and near-inhuman reflexes to stay safe. In the final thirty seconds he caught a tiny mistake, slid behind and locked a rear-naked choke. His opponent struggled free at the buzzer, but the exchange had already caught Vieira's eye.
At the end of class the Brazilian walked to the front, motioned Yogan forward and, without a word, untied the white belt at his waist. From his gi bag he produced a brand-new dark-blue belt.
"In Jiu-Jitsu we use colours to mark the Dao you travel," Vieira said, voice solemn. "Yogan, you've proven your defence in the Octagon and your learning spirit here in training. From today you are a blue belt. This is not just an honour, it's a responsibility. Keep going."
He tied the belt himself. The room erupted with applause and whistles. DC bounded over in an exaggerated hug, nearly lifting Yogan off the ground.
That belt was more than fabric. It was official recognition that Yogan had crossed the threshold of Jiu-Jitsu, no longer an outsider but a practitioner. He stroked the tight weave and felt a surge of mixed pride and humility. Every strand of it had been earned through suffocating rolls under Khabib and endless hours of drilling.
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The Hidden Battle
High-intensity training also meant constant risk of injury. Team Yogan retained one of the Bay Area's best physical therapists, a tall, athletic white woman named Susan. Once a week Yogan visited her studio for assessment and rehab.
"Your right rotator cuff is a bit too tight," she said, palpating with practiced fingers. "That's from the recent spike in your right-hand punch training." She moved to his ankle. "And you've got a slight ligament strain here from low-kick overuse."
For the next hour Yogan endured the familiar "ice and fire" therapy: cold packs numbing his joints, then a fascia gun delivering pulsing electric micro-currents deep into tense muscles, making him wince. Finally came traditional Chinese acupuncture—dozens of silver needles sliding into his shoulders and back.
This was the unglamorous side of elite sport: the endless, painful fight against one's own body behind the spotlight. A fighter must not only defeat opponents but conquer himself.
In such a disciplined life, small "derailments" became vital resets. One evening, while Yogan was cooking, the doorbell rang. When he opened it DC and Luke Rockhold stood grinning.
"Hey kid, do I smell something? Testing out a new dark kitchen?" DC pinched his nose theatrically.
Luke jingled his car keys. "Quit playing chef. Let's go somewhere nice."
Before Yogan could refuse they each hooked an arm and shepherded him downstairs to an open-top sports car. They crossed the Bay Bridge north to Oakland and stopped at Oracle Arena.
"What…?" Yogan blinked.
"Welcome to Curry's world!" DC handed him a ticket. "You can't think about fighting all day. Watch how other top athletes perform."
Inside, the arena pulsed with music and 20,000 fans. When Stephen Curry drilled a super-long three-pointer the crowd's roar shook Yogan's chest. This was nothing like the blood-stained Octagon; this was pure sporting beauty. Watching Curry's lean, explosive body glide across the court, Yogan saw patterns: total body control, precise timing, and a heart that never quits. The game brought him rare mental relief and a fresh sense of himself as an athlete, not just a fighter.
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The Ranking Page
Late that night back at the apartment, freshly showered, Yogan lay awake. He opened his laptop, went straight to the UFC website, clicked "Athlete Rankings" → "Featherweight."
At the very bottom: #15 Yogan "The Flash."
Seeing his name beside legends sent a strange thrill through him. This wasn't merely a number; it was an entrance ticket to a hunter's ground. But the bottom of the list could vanish with a single loss. He began scrolling upward, reading each mountain he would have to climb.
#14 Jeremy Stephens – "Lil' Heathen," famous knockout power.
#13 Clay Guida – "The Carpenter," infinite gas tank, chaotic style.
#12 Dennis Bermudez – NCAA elite wrestler on a streak.
In his previous life these names were just data on a screen. Now they were real men he would meet inside a cage.
He scrolled further.
#9 Cub Swanson – "The Killer," creative striking and beautiful boxing.
#7 Dennis Siver – "The German Tank," feared spinning kick.
#5 Chad Mendes, #4 Frankie Edgar, #3 Ricardo Lamas – veterans and former title challengers, the ceiling of the division.
Two names made him pause.
#11 Conor McGregor.
Yogan's lips curved in a complex smile. This Irishman was too familiar: a fighting prodigy and marketing master, blending psychological warfare with skill. Not yet highly ranked but already a gathering storm. Yogan knew they would cross paths eventually—but not yet. Conor was a dessert to be saved for the banquet's climax.
His scroll stopped on another name.
#6 Dustin "Diamond" Poirier.
Yogan's eyes sharpened with a flicker of admiration. In his previous life he had watched Diamond rise from reckless featherweight to lightweight contender, endure bloody wars and setbacks, then carve an epic trilogy with Conor. He respected Dustin's indomitable heart, straightforward boxing, and pure warrior spirit born in the muddy towns of Louisiana.
To Yogan, Poirier was a raw diamond—powerful but still impulsive. Passionate and aggressive, yet open to exploitation. An excellent opponent, Yogan thought. Unlike Conor's mind games, a fight with Diamond would be pure combat, fists and kicks landing without theatrics. Defeating such a ranked brawler would prove his worth and vault him upward.
Being sixth made Poirier the perfect stepping stone: high enough to catapult Yogan into title talk, yet outside the top-three logjam so the UFC could plausibly stage a "rising star" bout.
"I want to fight you," Yogan whispered. But he knew calling out Poirier now would fail; the man might not even notice him. He needed a step first—a big enough win to earn the right.
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Choosing the Hunt
He closed the rankings and declined UFC matchmakers' push to book a quick fight. With David Chen and Coach Javier's support he made a decision many didn't understand: take a break. This wasn't laziness but the patient hibernation of a predator, time to digest victory, heal hidden injuries and sharpen claws for the next kill.
During this period Yogan's life narrowed to two points—apartment and gym. Sweat-soaked gis, the muffled thud of gloves on pads, teammates' heavy breathing during sparring. He became a sponge, absorbing everything AKA offered, hardening his base to indestructibility.
But silence doesn't last in a forest. As a ranked fighter Yogan had moved from pursuer to prey. Other hunters now targeted him.
The first came louder than expected. On an ESPN+ interview show, featherweight #12 Dennis "The Wrestler" Bermudez aimed squarely at him.
"Yogan? 'The Flash'?" Bermudez smirked. "Yeah, his kicks are quick, punches like lightning even. But who did he beat? Some Brazilian who likes to flop and play Jiu-Jitsu games. That's not takedown defence—that's avoiding the fight."
The camera framed Bermudez's massive neck and wrestler's build. "Listen, I'm from Long Island. We coach Division-I freestyle at the highest level. We won't dance around; we'll run over you like a truck."
He mimed a double-leg toward the lens. "I'll grab him, smash him into the fence. His lightning won't even spark. He's thin as a wall. I'll tear him apart and show he's just a media hype job."
The words hit like a stone dropped into still water, ripples exploding across social media. The challenge had been issued, direct and unmistakable.
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