Meanwhile, a softer yet deeper voice was approaching him from across the ocean.
As Yogan's winning streak in the UFC continued, his name finally broke through the niche barrier of the fighting world and began to attract the attention of mainstream sports media in China.
"Combat Weekly," China's most influential professional fight magazine, dispatched its veteran reporter—Gao Jianjun, known throughout the industry as "Old Gao"—to San Jose for an in-depth, exclusive interview. Gao was a veteran journalist who had covered boxing, kickboxing, and mixed martial arts for decades. If a Chinese fighter had ever made waves abroad, Old Gao had probably written about it.
The interview took place in a quiet corner of the American Kickboxing Academy (AKA) training gym. The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow across the matted floor. The air smelled unmistakably of a fight gym: sweat, leather, disinfectant, and the faint metallic tang of blood.
Old Gao, in his early forties and carrying a little extra weight around the waist, still moved with the sharp alertness of a man who'd seen it all. His eyes were as bright as a hawk's, and his handshake was firm.
"Yogan, hello. First of all, on behalf of all your fans in China, congratulations on your outstanding achievements."
The opening was formal, but Gao immediately cut to the heart of the matter.
"We watched your fight with Miller, and your takedown defense has improved dramatically—almost flawlessly. Now Dennis Bermudez has challenged you. He represents a completely different style of wrestling: purer, more explosive American collegiate wrestling. How do you evaluate this difference? Are you confident you can handle it?"
Sitting cross-legged on the mat, Yogan's expression remained calm.
"I respect every opponent and every fighting discipline," he said. "American wrestling emphasizes power, explosiveness, and relentless pressure. It's a truly high-level system.
"But the beauty of combat lies in the fusion and limitation of techniques. At AKA I've learned not only takedown defense but also the philosophy of distance control—a system that blends wrestling, jiu-jitsu, and striking. The fight itself will prove everything."
His answer balanced respect with quiet confidence.
Old Gao nodded and continued, "Many people say that Asian athletes are naturally at a physical disadvantage compared to European and American athletes. Do you believe this gap can be compensated for with acquired technique and tactics?"
The question was sharp, touching on a sore point for countless fighters back home.
Yogan paused, thinking before he spoke.
"I won't deny there are subtle differences in physical structure between different races," he said. "But the word 'genius' isn't one-dimensional.
"There's strength genius, speed genius, flexibility genius, stamina genius, and—above all—fight IQ genius. We might not have an edge in raw strength, but we can reach the highest levels in speed, agility, and tactical understanding.
"Fighting isn't just about muscle; it's about using your strengths to target your opponent's weaknesses. With more scientific training and rational tactics, I believe we can close—and even overcome—that gap."
For nearly an hour Old Gao's questions grew deeper, ranging from Yogan's mental journey to his views on the development of China's combat sports. Yogan answered humbly and sincerely. He expressed gratitude to his team, emphasized the importance of a scientific training system, and spoke with a maturity far beyond his years.
When the interview finally wrapped, Old Gao packed up his equipment with a thoughtful look.
"Listening to you," he said, "I feel the future of Chinese combat sports is truly promising. We have the hardest-working athletes in the world, the strongest willpower. What's missing isn't genius but the system to turn genius into champions. The path you're paving is immensely important for those who come after you."
He hesitated, then added, almost as casual small talk, "By the way, there are a lot of good prospects in China. For example, the current Welterweight champion of 'Martial Forest Legend,' Li Jingliang. He's a beast—reckless but powerful. It's a pity the platform is still too small; he can't yet compete with world-class masters."
Hearing the familiar name, Yogan's heart fluttered, but his face stayed expressionless. He smiled and said only:
"I believe real gold will always shine. If he has the power, the UFC door will open sooner or later."
He kept to himself the thought of personally recommending Li Jingliang. The timing wasn't right. First Yogan needed more influence of his own.
---
A few days later a teammate from AKA was scheduled to fight. As a core member of the gym, Yogan naturally went to Las Vegas to support him.
Backstage at the MGM Grand Hotel felt like a massive anthill. Fighters, coaches, staff, and media swarmed in every direction. The air vibrated with tension and anticipation.
In a narrow corridor leading to the warm-up rooms, Yogan encountered someone who left a deep impression on him.
The man wore an extravagantly tailored plaid suit, slicked-back hair, and sunglasses covering nearly half his face. He walked as though the hallway were his personal catwalk.
Conor McGregor.
At the time Conor had only two or three UFC fights—far from the "Celebrity King" he would later become—but the aura of arrogance was already unmistakable.
He nervously adjusted his hair and tie in the corridor mirror. When he saw Yogan walk past, he stopped, pulled off his sunglasses, and stared with pale, piercing eyes.
"Hey, Flash Boy! Good luck," he said in a thick Irish accent that sounded both friendly and mocking. "You've got fast hands, but my left hand's a goddamn sniper rifle."
He paused, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "Don't blink when I come for that belt."
Half praise, half challenge.
Yogan stopped, looked at him calmly as though watching an actor on stage. He neither grew angry nor rose to the bait. He simply nodded and replied in clear English:
"I'll be waiting."
Then he walked away without looking back.
This extreme calm gave Conor, who was used to intimidating opponents with aura alone, a moment of pause. Watching Yogan's retreating back, he stroked his chin, an intrigued smile forming—as though he'd just discovered a new toy.
---
That night Yogan's teammate scored a spectacular victory. The roar of the crowd only made Yogan's own desire to return to the Octagon burn hotter.
Soon after, Team Yogan officially accepted Dennis Bermudez's challenge. The highly anticipated "Clash of Styles" was booked as the main event of UFC Fight Night in Austin, Texas, three months away.
As soon as the news broke, the trash talk began.
Long Island MMA—Bermudez's gym—mocked AKA's wrestling system on social media, calling it "dirty wrestling tainted with Brazilian jiu-jitsu" and claiming Yogan would be "helpless" against a true NCAA elite wrestler.
These words infuriated AKA, a team founded on wrestling.
Former Olympic captain Daniel Cormier (DC) fired back on his podcast:
"What right does someone who couldn't even make the final round of Olympic qualifiers have to criticize a wrestling system built by an Olympic champion, an Olympic captain, and a two-time Sambo world champion? Funniest joke I've heard all year!
"That night in Austin we're going to show the Long Island kid what real, fight-ending ground control looks like!"
The war clouds were gathering.
Inside the gym, Yogan stood before AKA's giant tactics board, crammed with photos, fight data, and technical breakdowns of Dennis Bermudez. Javier, DC, and Khabib surrounded him, their faces serious and intense.
Yogan understood: this fight wasn't just about his own ranking. It was a defense of the team's honor. His opponent was a hungry wolf eager to drag him out of the top tier. The spear tip was pointed directly at AKA's foundation—its proud wrestling pedigree.
He would face a wrestling storm even purer, fiercer, and more destructive than Cole Miller. He had to win, and win decisively.
Once the battle horn sounded, the entire gym shifted gears, moving from routine sparring to full pre-fight mode. For twelve weeks Dennis Bermudez became the invisible enemy hanging over everyone's head.
Coach Javier's first instruction was for Yogan to forget the style he'd used in his last fight.
"Miller's ground game was soft—he wanted to drag you into deep water. Bermudez's wrestling is hard—he wants to tear you apart with pure power and impact!" Javier underlined "impact" and "sustainability" with a red marker on the tactics board.
"Our focus this time isn't defense alone; it's endurance and counterattack!"
To prepare for Bermudez's tireless takedowns, Khabib designed a hellish new training mode: High-Intensity Continuous Takedown-Defense Cycles.
This wasn't a polite technical drill anymore. It was simulated combat under extreme pressure.
The timer was set for five-minute rounds. As soon as the bell rang, Khabib—like an enraged Dagestani brown bear—launched brutal takedowns at full power, without warning or pattern. Every shot was heavy, every movement lightning-fast.
Yogan's only task: maintain balance and a solid defensive stance under the onslaught. He sprawled, circled, pummelled for underhooks, and used razor-sharp footwork to neutralize Khabib's impact.
But the true terror was Khabib's continuity. After one defended takedown he didn't pause; he immediately changed angles and fired off a second, a third, a fourth.
In each five-minute round Khabib attempted over twenty full-power takedowns, giving Yogan almost no chance to breathe.
His stamina drained at an unprecedented rate. Sweat poured down his forehead like a stream, soaking the mat. By the final minute each breath burned his lungs, each defense felt like carrying a mountain.
"Don't use brute force! Use your brain! Feel your center of gravity!" Javier shouted from the edge of the mat. "Anticipate—move before you're forced to!"
DC added his own brand of encouragement: "Come on, kid! This guy's gas tank's just like yours. If you can't hold out now, you'll get rag-dolled on fight night!"
During one brutal session, at the 4:30 mark, after defending fifteen takedowns in a row, Yogan's legs finally gave out. Khabib seized the moment and blasted him with an upper-body throw that sent him crashing to the mat. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
For a moment he lay there, stomach churning, gasping for breath. But he refused to quit. Trembling, he forced himself upright, and when the timer beeped for the final seconds he stood again in a fighting stance.
Khabib's hawk-like eyes flickered with approval.
This kind of torture repeated day after day. Under relentless pressure Yogan's body and will hardened like forged steel. Even in states of extreme fatigue he began to react with calm mind and instinctive precision.
But high-intensity training brought new challenges. With increased strength and muscle mass, Yogan's daily walking weight quietly crept past 185 pounds (84 kg). For a featherweight who had to compete at 145 pounds (65.7 kg), it was a dangerous threshold. Cutting weight became harder than ever.
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End of Chapter 21 excerpt.