David Chen regarded Yogan with a complicated expression. He knew Yogan had earned a sizeable sum in fight purses and bonuses, but certainly not enough to toss aside the offer so casually. To David, the young man's refusal sounded like arrogance—youthful defiance unwilling to compromise.
"Yogan, this isn't a small amount of money…" he said carefully.
"I understand."
Yogan's tone was calm, almost detached. He had no intention of revealing his true finances. Instead, he guided the conversation away from money with quiet precision.
"David," his voice was soft yet perfectly clear, "I know what you're saying. I also understand the commercial value behind it. But this flashy, attention-grabbing approach doesn't sit well with me."
He paused. His gaze drifted past the apartment walls as if seeing something far beyond them. In that instant, images flickered before his eyes: under the dazzling lights of the Octagon a fighter with the same yellow skin and black hair forcing broken English into harsh slogans for the camera. The man's face was a mask of stubbornness, unnatural expression and hidden weariness.
"I hope," Yogan said softly, voice edged with unshakable determination, "that when people mention Chinese warriors, the first thing they think of isn't fake arrogance but resilience, wisdom and true strength. I want to walk a harder yet purer path."
As he spoke, memories sharpened. He remembered the insults hurled at that "Bloodthirsty Demon" in his previous life—vicious comments, endless misunderstanding. The world of commercial fighting demanded a price from an Eastern face just to be noticed.
He could even see, as if on a future day, that same fighter in a roaring arena, caught from behind by a towering, almost invincible "Wolf King." The opponent's arm clamped his throat like an iron vise. Air vanished. In that desperate moment the man refused to quit. With the last of his strength he turned, blurred vision fixed on the referee, screaming silently: I can still fight! I will never surrender! Seconds later his body went limp and darkness swallowed him.
Better to faint than to be touched.
The tragic grandeur of that instant had carved itself into Yogan's soul like the edge of a knife. A sigh rose silently within him—empathy as a fellow warrior, regret born of rebirth. He could not and would not tread that misunderstood, despised shortcut again.
Returning from his thoughts, Yogan met his teammates' eyes and said slowly, each word firm: "I want to earn respect through my victories, not by copying other people's nonsense."
Finally, he faced David Chen, confidence blazing in his eyes. "And David—believe me. When a fighter becomes strong enough to control the outcome of a match instead of being controlled by it, commercial value will knock on his door. At that point we won't be following the rules; we'll be making them."
The words landed with weight. David opened his mouth, then closed it and simply nodded. He was convinced. For the first time he realized he might be working not merely for a gifted fighter but for the future leader of "King Heart."
"Of course you can still share things on my social media," Yogan added mildly.
David nodded again. Without Yogan's cooperation, a few sensational posts would do little anyway. This meeting set the tone for Team Yogan's future: strength is king, honesty is fundamental.
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Respect Inside the Gym
Beyond the noisy arena of fame and fortune, daily life at AKA Training Gym was quietly shifting. In the hard-edged world of mixed martial arts, wins and rankings are the most direct emblems of power. When Yogan walked back into the training hall he felt it instantly—people's eyes had changed. They no longer saw a promising teenager but a proven, ranked fighter.
The biggest shift showed during Coach Javier's tactical sessions. Once, Yogan had been only a listener and diligent practitioner. Now Javier actively sought his opinion.
That afternoon the team was analyzing footage of an upcoming opponent for their welterweight teammate.
"His left-leg roundhouse kick is powerful," Javier said, sketching on his playbook. "But there's a slight drop in his guard before he throws it. Our plan is to time a right straight counterpunch."
He glanced at veterans like DC and Luke Rockhold, then turned to Yogan.
"Yogan, you know distance best. How high do you think the success rate is?"
All eyes moved to him. Yogan replayed the clip, studying the movement.
"Coach, direct counter-punching is risky," he said. "A roundhouse is not only an attack; it's a trap. Look—after the kick he drops his left hand to prevent a leg catch and takedown. If we punch, we're pulled into close range."
He paused, then outlined his own plan. "Instead of punching back, slide forward, control his head with your right hand and at the same time drive your right knee into the inside of his supporting leg. That unbalances him and prevents a clinch. Done right, there's even a chance of an immediate TKO."
It was a cunning, lethal tactic. Javier's eyes lit up. After replaying the footage several times he slapped his thigh. "Exactly! A one-hit killer! We'll drill it like this."
From that moment Yogan was no longer just an apprentice at AKA; he was becoming a core brain feeding wisdom into the champion-making machine.
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Teacher and Partner
With rising status came heavier responsibility. Ambitious new fighters sought him out for sparring, hoping to learn a trick or two from the new expert. Yogan never refused. In live training he used his superior skill ruthlessly so partners could feel the gap in level, but afterward he patiently corrected mistakes and demonstrated the right movements. His calm, firm instruction often carried more weight than a coach's words. Gradually he earned deep respect among AKA's younger generation.
Even his relationship with veterans like DC and Khabib evolved from "junior under mentorship" to "equal training partner."
DC's next opponent was the fearsome "Bigfoot" Antonio Silva. Yogan spent a week imitating Silva's striking style, becoming DC's personal sparring partner. Though far lighter than DC, his speed, distance sense and accuracy left the heavyweight groaning.
"Hard! Hard!" DC gasped after a round, helmet off. "Kid, sparring you is tougher than Cain! Your fists are like sewing needles—they reach everywhere!"
Yogan smiled. "DC, your right-hand punch is devastating, but your prep motion is too big. Tighten it a little and Silva won't see it coming."
DC fell silent, thinking, then dragged Yogan aside to rehearse stealthier, faster, more powerful punches.
Ground training with Khabib was even more intense. Yogan still lost more than he won; Khabib's sambo-wrestling blend was a suffocating web of muscle and will. But now and then Yogan blocked a submission at the last instant using his near-inhuman reflexes. Once, from side control, he caught Khabib's weight shift and reversed to a near-Kimura lock. Though Khabib ultimately powered out, Yogan rose to see surprise—and a flicker of admiration—on the Dagestani's face.
"Your progress… very rapid," Khabib said in his accented English.
That recognition, earned purely through skill, pleased Yogan more than any praise. He knew he was on the right path, and he liked the feeling.
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Building the Foundation
Time rolled on in sweat and muscle aches. For Yogan, the weeks without official matches were not rest but foundation-building—the stage that determines how high a fighter can climb. He believed a skyscraper's height depends on the depth of its foundation. He focused on strengthening rather than patching weaknesses. After hellish training with Khabib his ground defense already surpassed the UFC average. Now he sharpened his sharpest weapons.
His nickname "The Flash" reflected his core asset—speed. Through David Chen's connections, Team Yogan partnered with a top sports-science lab at Stanford University. Twice a week Yogan underwent advanced testing. High-speed motion-capture cameras recorded every punch and kick from 360 degrees. White-coated scientists fed the data into computers for biomechanical analysis.
"Data shows that when you throw a right straight punch, your hip rotation starts 0.03 seconds earlier than your shoulder rotation," said Dr. Allen, pointing at a 3-D model. "That tiny lag costs power. If hips, waist and shoulders snap like a whip together, your punch speed rises five percent, power at least ten."
So Yogan drilled thousands of shadow-boxing and pad sessions to erase that 0.03-second delay from muscle memory. Like an artist chiseling marble, he sculpted his body toward perfect kinetic beauty.
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Expanding the Arsenal
Speed and power alone are not enough at the top level. After one training session Javier called Yogan over and opened his tablet. A video of legendary middleweight champion "The Spider" Anderson Silva played: front-kick KO of Vitor Belfort, hidden knee strikes ending fights instantly.
"See?" Javier said. "When punches and kicks get neutralized or distance closes, elbows and knees become the final daggers. Your height and reach are excellent at featherweight—use them."
From that day Muay Thai clinch work and short-range elbow-knee strikes entered Yogan's regimen. He learned to slice an opponent's brow with an elbow in a scramble, to drive knees into ribs during clinch breaks. Brutal, direct, utterly different from his previous fluid style—yet they greatly expanded his tactical options. He was evolving from an elegant swordsman into a heavily armed warrior.
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Conclusion of the Chapter
Inside the gym his reputation soared. Younger fighters lined up for rounds; veterans treated him as a peer. DC's hands grew sharper under his guidance; even Khabib offered grudging respect. At Stanford he refined every fraction of a second; with Javier he built new weapons. Each day of sweat without a fight was another brick in the skyscraper's foundation.
Yogan understood that the world of combat sports ultimately bows to one principle: power is king. Not the power of showmanship or bluster, but the real, undeniable power of skill, preparation and will. He was determined to claim it—on his own path, in his own way.
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