Commentators on television panels and live streams around the globe were locked in final, fever-pitched debate."Undoubtedly," one analyst insisted, "Yogan's slap gave him a huge psychological edge. But it also lit a powder keg—he's awakened a monster."Another shook his head. "Conor McGregor is unpredictable. When a man like that is angry you never know what he'll do. He might throw his plan away and get reckless, or he might tap into 120 percent of his strength. Either way it's dangerous."Far away in Rio de Janeiro, the "King" José Aldo, now recovered from injury, gave his own icy verdict to the media:"They're both just clowns warming up for me. Whoever walks out with that fake belt is only keeping it warm. I'll come back and take back everything that belongs to me."This was not just another fight.It was a global spectacle witnessed by billions of eyes—the last electric moments before the war began.---In Yogan's Dressing RoomBackstage at the MGM Grand, the air was so heavy it felt like it could drip from the ceiling. Yogan sat on a folding chair with his eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, like an ancient statue in meditation. Every rise and fall of his chest was deliberate, measured.Beside him an experienced hand-wrapper moved with reverent precision, layering gauze and tape over his fists. The ritual was slow, solemn, almost ceremonial. The camera's zoom caught a close-up: those hands, about to unleash a storm, being transformed into weapons one careful strip at a time—knuckles reinforced like bone spurs, wrists braced like steel hinges.When the last strip of tape was pressed down, the wrapper checked his work, nodded, and tapped Yogan's fist. "Good luck, champion."Around him the whole team formed a circle, stacking their hands in the middle. Coach Javier met his student's eyes and gave his final words. "Yogan, remember our plan, but also remember: inside the Octagon everything changes in an instant. Trust your instincts. Trust every drop of sweat you've shed.""Go and take what's yours!""Well!" the team answered, low but firm, the sound like a drumroll before battle.From far down the corridor came the faint but unmistakable swell of Irish entrance music—Conor McGregor's theme—mixed with a roar of cheers and a wall of boos loud enough to rattle eardrums. The two sounds clashed and merged into a single terrifying wave.Hearing it, Yogan slowly opened his eyes. Whatever warmth or excitement had been there vanished. What remained was absolute stillness, and a killing intent as pure and cold as forged steel.He drew a breath, filling his lungs with strength. Flanked by Javier, DC Cormier, Luke, and Dr. Phil, he rose and walked into the long corridor—a tunnel of light leading not only to glory but also to blood and fire. Step by step, each footfall beat like the drum of history.Flashbulbs exploded. The noise swelled like a raging sea. Yogan heard none of it. In his world there was only the Octagon—nine meters of canvas wrapped in wire and light—and the single prey waiting inside.---The WalkoutWhen Yogan's silhouette appeared at the arena entrance, the urgent, ancient notes of "Ambush from Ten Sides" burst from every speaker. No lyrics, no chants—only pipa strings like rain on a battlefield. The cold Eastern melody sliced through the arena's feverish atmosphere like a knife through silk. Tens of thousands felt an involuntary shiver run up their spines.There he was: a Chinese fighter in black dragon-patterned shorts, face unreadable. He did not look like an athlete preparing for a sport. He looked like an assassin sent to finish a contract.He stepped onto the platform and into the cage. The heavy iron door clanged shut behind him—click. Retreat was gone. Only victory or defeat remained.At the referee's signal he and Conor advanced to the center, keeping an arm's length between them. Conor wore a cruel sneer. "You're dead," he muttered.Yogan's face was a cliff—no flicker of expression. He stared at Conor as if at a ghost already buried."ARE YOU READY?!""IT'S TIME!"Bruce Buffer's legendary voice boomed across the world, sending fight fans into frenzy.The bell rang.The war began.---Round One – The StormAs expected, Conor came out like a bull released from a cage, all coiled fury and humiliation. His signature bouncing footwork was sharper and faster than ever. The poisonous left hand hovered, searching for the kill shot.Yogan obeyed Javier's plan to the letter: move, move, always move. He became a flickering shadow in the cage, maintaining dangerous yet safe distance with surgical precision. Conor's punches sliced the air past his ears, each one whistling like a bullet, each missing by a hair."He's running! That coward's running!" green-clad fans jeered from below. But the seasoned observers knew this was not running. This was chess. This was attrition.Seconds ticked by like minutes.Then Conor changed rhythm. A subtle shift of footwork, a hitch almost invisible. His bounding steps stopped; his left foot stabbed forward at an odd angle—the setup for his signature left bomb.Yogan's inner alarm blared. Time seemed to slow. He could see the flex of Conor's shoulder, predict the punch's trajectory. Yet Conor was Conor: master of distance and timing. Even Yogan's godlike reflexes could only make an extreme dodge, not a full escape.The left hand landed—a lightning bolt through the night. Yogan slid aside at the last instant but the edge of the punch slashed across his left eyebrow like a scalpel.Pff!A small tearing sound. Skin parted. Hot blood welled."Oh my God, he hit!" Joe Rogan shouted from the commentary desk. "Conor's left hand lands flush! Yogan is bleeding—one minute into the fight!"Blood streamed down Yogan's brow, blurring half his vision in a crimson haze. Shock flickered—not fear, but awe at Conor's speed. Stronger than any scenario he had imagined.---In the CrowdDown in the VIP section, Yogan's mother clapped a hand over her mouth, face draining of color. Her body trembled. His father's brow furrowed into three deep lines like the character for "river." He reached out and gripped his wife's hand, wordless but solid.The red-shirted Chinese supporters fell silent, hearts clenched in their throats.---Back in the CageConor smelled blood and went wild. His pupils gleamed with mania. Curses poured from his mouth as his fists rained like a storm."Do you feel it, rat? This is death! I'll crush your face to mush right now!"Yogan said nothing. He wiped the blood with his right glove; it flowed again. Calm down, calm down. Javier's voice echoed in his skull: He'll attack like a rabid dog. Don't fight him directly. Wear him out.For the remaining three minutes Yogan endured a near-constant barrage. He was a small boat in a hurricane, arms numbing from each block, escapes measured by millimeters.Finally the bell clanged—the sweetest sound in the world. Round one was over.He turned and walked back to his corner. The team doctor pressed adrenaline-soaked swabs to the cut. "Superficial," he barked. "Bone intact!"Javier slapped an ice pack on Yogan's neck. "Listen to me! Look at me!" His voice was quick and clear. "Don't panic. It's just a scratch. Everything is going to plan. He's excited, he's angry—good. Let him burn his gas tank.""Next round we start chopping the tree. Leg kicks! Every time he throws that left, his front leg's exposed. Axe-chop it!"DC Cormier leaned in from the side. "I saw him breathing heavy! He's got cardio issues. Hang on, Yogan. Drag him to our world—deep water!"---Conor's CornerAcross the cage Conor's trainer yelled, "Calm down! Don't let anger cloud you! Control the rhythm—he's trying to wear you out!"Conor didn't hear. He pointed at Yogan and roared at his own coach, "Shut up! I'll kill him right now! Can't you see it's already over?!"---Round Two – The AxeThe second round opened with the same tension. Conor still charged forward, but Yogan's eyes were different now—steady, measuring.Conor lunged with his trademark left jab. Yogan slipped it beautifully, causing Conor's center of gravity to tilt too far forward.Opportunity.Yogan's right leg whipped out like the battle-axe Javier had promised, slamming into the outside of Conor's left calf—the supporting leg—with a whir that cut the air.Thwack!The sound wasn't a kick into flesh but a baseball bat smashing raw steak, amplified through arena microphones."Ahhh!" For the first time Conor's face betrayed pain. His movement paused for a split second."Leg kick! Beautiful leg kick!" Joe Rogan's voice rose. "Yogan's turning the tide! He's starting to cut down the big tree!"The crowd reacted—gasps from green shirts, cheers from red banners. Momentum shifted like a wind change on a battlefield.---(continued…)Yogan circled, breathing steady. He remembered every drill, every low-kick session until his shins bled. Conor's anger was his opening; his front leg a target painted in neon. Again and again Yogan chopped at it—inside, outside, calf, thigh—each strike a hammer blow to the bull's foundation.Conor gritted his teeth and swung wider, but his timing frayed. His famous bounce lost spring. The ocean of Irish voices dulled as the Chinese phalanx's chant grew louder.Yogan's cut still bled but his mind was ice. He saw Conor's punches coming a fraction earlier now. He slipped, countered, kicked. The cage was no longer a storm; it was his arena.With thirty seconds left in the round he landed another thunderous low kick that buckled Conor's knee and forced a grimace. The crowd erupted.The bell rang. Round two ended with the tide visibly turning.Back in his corner Javier's eyes gleamed. "That's it! That's the python! Keep chopping. Deep water is coming."Across the cage Conor sat heavily, chest heaving, leg mottled red. His coach pleaded, "Breathe. Calm. Adjust." Conor only glared at Yogan, muttering curses.---The war was far from over, but its rhythm had changed. The hunter had become the hunted. All around the world—from Vegas to Dublin to Beijing—people leaned toward their screens, breath held, as the great fight unfolded.---
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