Chapter 46 - Chapter 43 – Slapping Conor

Even though Yogan's body was depleted, the instincts and reflexes forged through a lifetime of fighting were etched into his bones. His nerves reacted before conscious thought could intervene, his whole frame moving with a precision born of endless training.He had predicted this moment long before it happened.Conor's fist exploded toward him, but Yogan tilted his head back at a subtle, perfectly measured angle. The punch sliced through empty air, so close it whistled past the bridge of his nose. For a heartbeat the crowd saw Conor's trademark left hook meet nothing at all.And then—counterattack.Yogan's torso rotated, his left hand already cocked like a spring. It shot forward with blinding speed.Crack!The sound of the impact was sharp and unmistakable. Picked up by the announcer's microphone and echoed through the cavernous arena, it rolled across the stands like thunder. For a moment time itself seemed to freeze.A vivid red handprint bloomed across Conor's face, stark against the Irishman's pale skin. His eyes went wide with disbelief.Yogan calmly flexed his stinging palm, then fixed Conor with a cold stare. His voice was low, but each word carried clearly over the stunned silence."Watch your hands. Watch your mouth. Or I'll break them both."The hush shattered."Ahhh!" Conor roared like a maddened bull, eyes bulging, neck veins standing out. He lunged forward as if to gore Yogan with his bare hands. "I'll kill you! You hear me? I'll kill you, you bastard!"Dana White and a dozen security guards surged between them. Chaos erupted on stage. Several burly men restrained Conor, yet his legs kept kicking and he spat curses in a torrent of guttural Irish slang, dragging Yogan's family name through the mud.Behind a human shield of DC Cormier and Coach Javier, Yogan stood impassive. There was no anger in his eyes—only a cool, detached pity. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he uttered two soft syllables:"Snakefruit."Cameras captured the entire exchange. The big screen above the weigh-in stage replayed the slap and Yogan's taunt again and again, each loop igniting the crowd's frenzy. Conor understood the reference, and it only fueled his fury. He struggled harder, muscles bunching like a caged animal's.The powder keg finally blew. What had been a tense ceremonial weigh-in now became a full-blown melee. UFC officials rushed to evacuate fighters, staff, and media before the MGM Grand's lobby turned into a riot scene.Backstage, Conor's rage reached a breaking point. He shoved aside teammates who tried to calm him and snatched up his phone. Red-eyed and trembling, he recorded a video rant laced with obscenities and racist slurs, ignoring frantic pleas from his PR team. In the clip he jabbed a finger at the camera, voice cracking with hatred. Then he posted a high-resolution screenshot of the slap—his face twisted in humiliation for the entire world to see—and typed in block capitals:"JUST WAIT. SATURDAY NIGHT I'M TAKING THIS YELLOW MONKEY'S HEAD BACK TO DUBLIN AS A TROPHY. I SWEAR ON THE MCGREGOR FAMILY."The post detonated across social media like a depth charge in still water. Comment threads exploded. Hashtags trended worldwide. Sports talk shows dropped everything to replay the slap and debate its implications.What had started as a high-stakes interim title fight had morphed into something darker—a personal vendetta laced with national pride, race, and the honor of two entire fighting cultures. This would no longer be just a match. It was war.---In Yogan's Locker RoomFar from the madness outside, Yogan's private lounge was sealed off like a bunker. Security guards blocked the door; the windows were covered. No reporters, no flashes, no cheering fans—only the hum of medical equipment and the quiet efficiency of his team.The slap had drained what little strength he had left from the brutal weight cut. He lay back on the sofa, eyes half-closed, skin pale, hovering in the fragile limbo between "Hell" and "the human world," as his coaches called it. If this recovery window failed, he would enter the Octagon a shell of himself.Dr. Phil worked with machine-like precision. "Five hundred milliliters of saline, slow drip," he instructed, sliding on sterile gloves. A catheter slid into Yogan's arm with a practiced flick. "Glucose and electrolytes—sip a hundred milliliters every fifteen minutes. Not faster, or you'll cramp."Cool fluid coursed through Yogan's veins. Bit by bit the fog lifted from his mind.DC Cormier burst in, unable to contain his excitement. "That slap!" he shouted, hands flying. "Brother, that slap was art. Conor's stupid face—those five fingerprints! I swear, you looked more like the heavyweight champ than me!"Luke Rockhold laughed from the corner. "Outside, the whole Irish press corps turned green. Greener than their flag.""Enough!" Coach Javier's bark cut through the banter. He crouched in front of Yogan, expression grave."You angered him, Yogan. That's a double-edged sword." His tone was low but sharp. "Yes, an enraged opponent loses discipline, exposes weaknesses—that's what we want. But he could also go berserk and fight harder than ever, like a wounded beast. We must prepare for that scenario."Yogan nodded slowly, replaying the weigh-in in his head. He had no regrets. The slap had been deliberate, the culmination of weeks of psychological warfare. Conor thought humiliation would break him. Instead it had sprung the trap.Here is the cage I built for you, he thought. Your anger will be the tombstone of your defeat.---Ten Hours LaterNight settled over the MGM Grand. In Yogan's hotel suite the smell of food filled the air—real food, not the sterile steak and pasta of his weight-cut diet.On the table sat a steaming bowl of tomato-and-egg noodles, prepared in the hotel kitchen by his mother herself. Red tomatoes, golden egg ribbons, bright green onions, and hand-pulled noodles—the taste of childhood.Dr. Phil had tested it with his instruments and, for once, did not object. The slight deviation from the nutrition plan was worth the psychological comfort.Yogan ignored the steak. He lifted the bowl, inhaled deeply, and felt every pore in his body open. He twirled the chopsticks, took a giant bite, and closed his eyes. The warmth spread through him like sunlight, dissolving months of fatigue and stress.His mother watched, eyes shining with tears, dabbing at them with a tissue yet smiling all the while.When the bowl was empty—even the broth—Yogan moved on to the official "main course." This ritual meal marked his passage back from Hell.After dinner the final tactical briefing began. Coach Javier set up his board, diagrams crisscrossed with arrows."Forget about knockouts in the first two rounds," he said firmly. "He'll charge like a rabid dog. Don't meet him head-on. Use your movement, use the low kicks we drilled ten thousand times. Cut his supporting leg. Picture him as a raging bull—you're the patient python.""Drag him into deep water. In rounds four and five, when his stamina and will are gone, then go for the finish. The python doesn't run into the bull. It coils. It squeezes."Yogan absorbed every word, face calm, eyes focused.When the meeting ended, the team gave space to family and the visiting Chinese delegation.His mother squeezed his hand. "Son, protect yourself. Don't get hurt too badly. That's all I ask."His father silently unfolded a small Five-Star Red Flag and tucked it into Yogan's shirt pocket. "Let it be with you," he said in his deep, steady voice.Teammates Li Jingliang and Zhang Tiequan offered their own encouragement."Brother," Li said, clapping him on the shoulder, "tomorrow the whole nation—fighters and non-fighters alike—will be watching. We're rooting for you. Go for it!"Zhang's eyes burned with pride. "Make history. Bring that belt back to China."Professionalism. Family warmth. National honor. Three forces now braided into Yogan's strongest armor and sharpest weapon. He was ready.---The World Holds Its BreathOutside, Las Vegas throbbed with anticipation. The sleepless city split into two colors.Thousands of Irish fans swarmed the plaza outside the MGM Grand, turning it into a sea of green, guzzling beer and singing battle hymns.Across the Strip, a smaller but fiery crowd of Chinese students and expatriates unfurled a giant banner: Yogan Will Win—China Power!Songs and chants clashed across the boulevard like distant drums of war.In Dublin, taverns glowed bright despite the early hour. Highlights of Conor McGregor's knockouts played on giant screens, each punch drawing a roar from the crowd. They awaited their national hero's next conquest.In Beijing's Sanlitun district, a famous sports bar overflowed. Coffee, beer, and tension scented the air. On CCTV Sports Channel, a passionate host declared, "This is not just a championship fight. This is a clash of civilizations, the ultimate showdown between East and West!"Hands clutched small national flags slick with sweat.Even the betting markets reflected the seismic shift. Odds that once favored Conor now leaned toward Yogan. Wagers poured in at record levels, the board pulsing like a living thing.The stage was set.---Yogan sat quietly in his suite, the flag against his heart, feeling the weight of everything—the slap, the storm he had unleashed, the hopes of millions. Yet his mind was still.Tomorrow the Octagon would close. One man would walk out a champion.He whispered to himself, not a prayer but a promise: "I'm ready."---