Chapter 58 - Chapter 58: The Forgotten King

Conor McGregor had clearly grown bored with mere insults. The simple jabs, the petty mockery—these no longer satisfied his hunger for attention. He now sought to degrade, to humiliate, to manipulate. He began producing so-called tactical analyses, claiming to dissect Yogan's team and the AKA Training Gym.The Irishman somehow obtained internal training videos from the gym and began recording his own commentary over them."Look at this!" he sneered in one video, pointing at a clip of Khabib Nurmagomedov grappling. "The guy from Dagestan moves like a clumsy bear! How is this even MMA?"He switched clips, showing DC Cormier working a drill. "And this short, fat bowling ball," Conor mocked, gesturing as though he could toss him like a pin, "does he think he's in a sumo match?"He spared no one. Every member of Yogan's team became fair game. He ridiculed their weight, their technique, their discipline—trying to sow discord within the AKA family.But in the face of his attacks, the men of AKA simply laughed. DC, for one, retweeted Conor's video on Twitter with a caption dripping in controlled amusement:"Hey little guy, when you dare to move up to Light Heavyweight, I'd be happy to show you the power of a bowling ball."This calm, measured response made Conor's psychological tactics appear flimsy and childish for the first time. In the sacred halls of AKA, where warriors trained with sweat, blood, and discipline, such provocations were little more than locker-room jokes, seasoning the post-practice camaraderie.Yogan, true to his strategy, implemented a complete ignore approach. He blocked out all the external noise. In his mind, he was a piece of iron cast into a furnace, tempered daily by the relentless grind of training. Every punch, kick, and grapple honed his body and mind. In his world, there was only preparation. He was the silent king in a distant corner of Brazil, the shadow of ultimate discipline and focus.---The True King in BrazilHalf a world away, in Rio de Janeiro, another figure prepared quietly for the same battle that had captured the attention of the MMA world: Jose Aldo, the undisputed king of Featherweight.Unlike the futuristic, almost sterile technology palace of AKA, Aldo's gym was a relic. Its walls were marked with decades of sweat, blood, and history. Rust speckled the edges of equipment, and the air was thick and humid, carrying the scent of effort and endurance. This gym, old and unassuming, had forged legends.Aldo, shirtless, his bronze skin glistening with sweat, moved with the silent power of a predator. His muscular lines were not sculpted for aesthetics like Yogan's—they were functional, like a leopard ready to pounce. Every inch of him exuded raw explosive energy.He struck the heavy sandbag repeatedly, each hit echoing like the chopping of a lumberjack's axe: Bed! Bed! Bed!The reverberation of his strikes filled the room. His sparring partner dared not interfere recklessly, knowing a single misstep could be catastrophic. Every kick, every punch, every shift of his body was meticulously precise, honed through years of experience.Aldo's anti-wrestling drills were relentless. His legs were pillars of rock, his core unyielding, his movements fluid yet brimming with latent lethal intent. He was not just training—he was sharpening the sword of vengeance.Between rounds, he would check his phone. The news of Yogan's growing fame, Conor's antics, and the social media uproar constantly appeared. And yet, the coverage of Aldo, the true Featherweight king, was minimal. His name was barely mentioned, overshadowed by a rising star and a loud provocateur.When he checked the betting odds for UFC 194, Aldo's eyes hardened. He, the undefeated champion, was listed as the underdog, at staggering odds of 1:2.5. This wasn't just disrespect—it was outright humiliation.He hung up his phone and stepped to the cracked mirror, eyes locking onto his reflection. Every line of his face radiated intensity, every fiber of his body radiated focus. The world had written him off, declaring his era over, ignoring the man who had ruled his division for a decade."Ladrões..." he whispered softly in Portuguese. "Thieves... You are all thieves. One stole my fight, one stole my crown."Both Yogan and Conor had, in his eyes, robbed him of his glory. Aldo's resolve crystallized in that instant. He would remind the world who the true god of Featherweight is, not through words, not through social media, but with blood, sweat, and absolute dominance in the Octagon."Your era has been stolen," he murmured, voice raw with intensity. "And I will reclaim it with my own hands."---Yogan's PreparationMeanwhile, in San Jose, the Middle Stage preparations had begun. AKA Training Gym was alive with energy, discipline, and focus. Yogan, at the center of it all, was undergoing his routine physical assessments in preparation for the most grueling phase of his training yet: the weight loss and conditioning peak.He stood on the 3D body composition analyzer, shedding his training clothes. Even the blonde female data analyst, experienced and professional, couldn't hide her admiration. Her breathing quickened unconsciously as her gaze swept over his physique, finally settling in a corner before she quickly looked away, flustered.Yogan's body was a masterpiece. Every muscle was carved with perfection, as if Michelangelo himself had sculpted him. There was no excess fat, no wasted motion—only pure, refined strength.His broad shoulders and inverted triangle back emphasized the narrowness of his waist. His chocolate-colored eight-pack abs shone under the studio lights, glistening with health and power. Each line of muscle reflected his discipline, his training, and his purpose.Even his legs, clad in tight training pants, radiated raw explosive power. Every movement, every contraction of his muscles was a testament to years of precise, deliberate training. His "key area" displayed unmistakable hormonal balance and masculine power, a detail that did not escape the professional eye of Dr. Phil, his sports physician and biomechanical analyst.---Dr. Phil's AnalysisDr. Phil adjusted his glasses, his expression unusually serious as he handed Yogan the tablet with the results. The numbers leapt out, painting a picture of perfect peak performance.Height: 1.90 metersArm Span: 1.95 metersDaily Weight: 88.2 kgBody Fat: 8.6%"Yogan," Dr. Phil said carefully, pointing to the steadily rising growth curves on the screen, "you're not even twenty-one, yet you are already in the second peak of male physical development, also known as the secondary growth spurt. This is scientifically remarkable. Your long-term commitment to high-intensity training, especially ring-based exercises, is actually promoting further growth. Exercises that stretch the shoulder joints, expand the chest, and apply controlled pressure to the spine can provide minor but significant gains in height and strength."Yogan listened intently, absorbing every detail without a word."Your epiphyseal plates haven't fully closed," Dr. Phil continued, "which means you still have growth potential. But here's the challenge: your training intensity must remain balanced with recovery. Too much strain or overtraining can damage growth plates or inhibit optimal development. This phase will require precision: diet, rest, and measured intensity. One misstep and your peak could be compromised."Yogan nodded slowly, already mentally integrating this into his plan. He knew every variable mattered, from muscle fiber recruitment to hormonal cycles, from sparring intensity to sleep quality. Every fraction of percentage counted.The gym around him continued its rhythmic chaos: punches hitting pads, kettlebells thudding to the floor, heavy bags swinging under the blows of warriors pushing toward greatness. In this crucible, Yogan was not just training his body—he was training his mind, his instincts, and his ability to dominate every battlefield, both in and out of the Octagon.And while Conor barked from the sidelines and the world cheered for new stars, Yogan's focus remained absolute. He understood the stakes: UFC 194 wasn't just a unification bout; it was a test of legacy, strategy, and mental dominance, where every move would be remembered for years to come.The forgotten king, Jose Aldo, was sharpening his revenge. The brash provocateur Conor McGregor was generating chaos. And Yogan? He was preparing to become more than a champion—he was preparing to become the unquestioned master of the Featherweight division, the one who could silence all barking dogs with his fists and his unbreakable will.In the crucible of AKA Training Gym, the silent king's era was just beginning.---