By the tenth round, Conor had already turned into little more than a moving punching bag.
His footwork was heavy, his breathing ragged, and his guard—once sharp and confident—had become loose and reactive. What kept him upright was no longer technique or strategy, but sheer willpower alone.
Across from him, Floyd Mayweather looked almost untouched.
His movements were still crisp, his defense airtight, his sense of distance terrifyingly precise. He slipped punches by the smallest margins, countered with pinpoint accuracy, and slowly dismantled Conor round after round.
Finally, after another merciless barrage of combination punches, the referee stepped in.
The fight was stopped.
TKO.
The arena erupted in noise as the result was announced.
Floyd Mayweather had secured the fiftieth victory of his legendary professional career—an unblemished 50–0 record.
Commentators immediately began dissecting the bout.
"Conor did surprisingly well in the first three rounds. Floyd clearly struggled to find his rhythm early on."
"It's just unfortunate that his stamina couldn't hold up. Going twelve rounds in boxing is a massive disadvantage for an MMA fighter."
In the private lounge where several top fighters were watching the bout together, the atmosphere was equally intense.
Song Yadong leaned toward the quiet figure beside him and nudged his shoulder.
"Brother Yogan," he asked with a grin, "what about you? If you were the one fighting Mayweather, how do you think it would've gone?"
The room instantly fell silent.
All eyes turned toward Yogan.
Some were curious.
Some were expectant.
Some were simply eager to hear the answer.
Yogan leaned back into the sofa, relaxed and composed. He took a slow sip of water, as if the question were nothing more than idle chatter, and then spoke calmly.
"Mayweather's defense, ring IQ, and control of distance are among the best in combat sports history," he said evenly. "Knocking him out is extremely difficult—almost impossible under normal circumstances."
Everyone listened closely.
"Conor's strategy wasn't wrong," Yogan continued. "He went all-in early, using his explosive stamina in the first three rounds to gamble on a knockout. The idea itself made sense."
He paused briefly.
"But he underestimated two things. First, Floyd's ability to endure pressure. Second, Floyd's mastery of stamina management. Once the early storm passed, the outcome was inevitable."
Yogan's tone was analytical, professional, and precise.
"If it were me," he went on, "I wouldn't fight like that. I'd rely on more varied footwork, constant feints, and layered rhythm changes. I'd aim to go the full twelve rounds."
He raised his hand slightly, as if sketching tactics in the air.
"Jabs, lead hooks, and continuous harassment. I'd focus on scoring, disrupting his timing, and denying him clean counters. My conditioning is sufficient to maintain high-intensity output for twelve rounds."
His conclusion was simple.
"The most likely result would be a narrow victory by points."
The room remained silent for a moment.
Then, several of the professional fighters present nodded in agreement.
They understood exactly what Yogan was saying.
Song Yadong's eyes lit up. "Brother Yogan, you really should fight him! That would be way more exciting than Conor's match. I'm telling you—you'd win!"
Zhang Weili laughed and chimed in, her voice full of confidence. "Exactly! Let the world see that Chinese Qi can also create miracles in the boxing ring!"
Yogan only smiled.
He didn't say anything else.
Because he knew the truth.
This was nothing more than friendly fantasy.
At the moment, his focus lay elsewhere—on a single name that weighed heavily in his mind.
Tyron Woodley.
However, even if Yogan wanted to stay out of the spotlight, public opinion had no intention of letting him.
After the so-called "Money Fight" concluded, the entire combat sports world plunged into a massive debate.
"MMA vs. Boxing."
Every major sports outlet, forum, and social media platform was flooded with arguments, breakdowns, and endless comparisons.
And inevitably, Yogan was dragged into the center of it all.
As the UFC's first two-division champion and the undisputed number-one pound-for-pound fighter, he was constantly compared to Conor—the man who had just lost under boxing rules.
"If Yogan had been in the ring, would the result have been different?"
"Is Yogan's boxing technique superior to Conor's?"
"Yogan is the true number one in the UFC!"
Such topics dominated headlines day after day.
Finally, on a highly popular sports talk show, the host decided to ask the question everyone wanted answered.
Looking directly into the camera, he asked sharply, "Yogan, many people believe that if you had fought Mayweather, you would've performed better than Conor—and might even have won. What's your view on this?"
The studio fell silent.
Cameras zoomed in.
Viewers across the world leaned closer to their screens.
Yogan's response, however, completely shocked everyone.
He didn't repeat the calm, conservative technical analysis he had shared privately before.
Instead, a cold, aggressive smile appeared on his face.
His eyes carried absolute confidence.
"I wouldn't go twelve rounds with him," Yogan said plainly.
The host blinked. "You wouldn't?"
"No," Yogan continued, his voice steady and unmistakable. "If it were me—under pure boxing rules—within three rounds, Floyd Mayweather would not be able to stand up."
Boom.
It was a verbal nuclear bomb.
The studio erupted.
The host stared at him in disbelief. "Three rounds? You're saying you'd knock out Floyd Mayweather? He's never been knocked out in his entire professional career."
"I know," Yogan replied calmly. "But he's also never faced me."
His gaze sharpened.
"Conor tried to knock him out with heavy punches. That was naive. I would use the highest possible striking frequency, targeting his body—especially the liver—from the very first round."
His words were precise. Cold. Brutal.
"I wouldn't allow him to drag the fight out. I wouldn't give him time to adapt. I wouldn't even give him a chance to breathe."
Yogan leaned forward slightly.
"Stamina means nothing in the face of absolute striking efficiency."
Silence.
Then chaos.
This was no longer analysis.
This was a declaration of war.
The sports world exploded.
Boxing fans were furious, flooding comment sections with rage, accusing Yogan of arrogance and disrespect.
Conor's supporters seized the opportunity to mock him, claiming he was all talk and no action.
At a press conference shortly afterward, Conor himself erupted after hearing the comments.
"What does that Chinese guy even know?!" he shouted angrily. "He doesn't even dare step into a boxing ring! Tell him to shut his damn mouth and hide in his gym—praying that Woodley doesn't twist his head off!"
The controversy quickly spilled over into Yogan's upcoming title defense.
A veteran boxing commentator made a sharp remark on live television.
"How is someone who might not even win his next fight qualified to comment on boxing at all? Beat Tyron Woodley first. Frankly, I believe he will definitely lose. Woodley's power and wrestling are unsolvable for him."
Shockingly, these comments received widespread support.
More and more fans began to reassess the upcoming fight between Yogan and Woodley.
For the first time in his UFC career, public opinion shifted dramatically.
In Yogan's past bouts, people never debated whether he would win—only how spectacular the finish would be.
But now, things were different.
His controversial remarks, combined with the presence of Tyron Woodley—the silent, deadly ruler of the welterweight division—made many believe Yogan had gone too far.
They called him reckless.
Overconfident.
Arrogant.
Many predicted that he would pay the price.
Even the UFC's ace commentator, Joe Rogan, spoke with rare seriousness on his podcast, which had over ten million listeners.
"This is a true fifty-fifty fight," Rogan said solemnly. "If I had to bet, I'd say Tyron Woodley has a slightly higher chance of winning."
He continued thoughtfully.
"This is the perfect example of 'styles make fights.' Yogan's speed, movement, and striking frequency are his greatest weapons—but only if he can execute them. And Woodley specializes in denying space."
Rogan's voice grew vivid.
"Imagine Yogan as a master bullfighter. Woodley is a bull wearing anti-tank armor, powered by a nuclear engine."
"This bull doesn't need to dance. He only needs one moment—just one—to unleash his explosive power. And the fight ends."
He paused before delivering the final point.
"Yogan moved up from featherweight. In the past, he always enjoyed advantages in height, reach, and physique. But not this time. Woodley is every bit as strong—maybe stronger."
For the first time, the world wasn't sure.
And for the first time, Yogan stood at the center of a storm—facing doubt, pressure, and the greatest challenge of his career.
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