Nutritionist Mary's diet plan had become even stricter. All high–glycemic index carbohydrates—white rice, regular bread, sweet rolls—had disappeared from Yogan's plate, replaced with steel-cut oats, brown rice, and mountains of vegetables. His proteins were limited to skinless boiled chicken breast and deep-sea fish. There were no sauces, no seasonings, no indulgences.
Hunger became his constant companion, his private demon. Late at night, lying in bed, Yogan could clearly hear his stomach growling, a low rumble echoing in the silence like distant thunder. He would stare at the ceiling, images of stewed beef, Guo Bao Rou, even a plain bowl of steaming white rice flashing through his mind.
Sometimes he deceived his body with water, taking slow gulps until his belly sloshed, but the cellular craving for energy clawed at his sanity. Even worse was watching his heavyweight teammates—DC, Cain Velasquez—devour steak and pizza after practice. While they joked and laughed, he quietly pulled celery stalks from his lunch box, dipped them in a pinch of salt, and chewed without joy.
"Yogan, come here."
Mary's tone during the post-workout evaluation was more serious than ever. She handed him the body-composition report, lines of cold numbers staring back.
"Look," she said. "Your body fat is down to seven percent. That's almost the lower limit for an athlete. But your muscle mass is still going up. Next time we cut weight we'll have to pull even more water. That's dangerous."
She looked him straight in the eye. "Yogan, you need to consider whether you really belong at 145 pounds. With your height and frame, maybe 155—lightweight—is where you can unleash your full power."
It was the first time someone from Team Yogan had openly raised the possibility of moving up a division.
Yogan stared at the numbers, emotions mixing inside him. Mary was right. Yet he still had unfinished goals at featherweight. He thought of that arrogant Irishman and the firm back of the Brazilian king.
"Mary," he said, eyes hardening. "This time, no matter how brutal, I'll make weight. My battlefield is still here—for now."
---
While his defense sharpened through endless drills, Coach Javier polished his deadliest weapon—the "counter-attacking spear." Bermudez's wrestling was ferocious, but Javier had found a fatal weakness: when Bermudez failed a takedown and straightened his body, his head barely moved or defended.
"There it is!" Javier barked one afternoon.
In the training room he personally mimicked Bermudez's movements using a human-height target. "The moment he stands up, all his focus is on pulling back. That's his most vulnerable instant. Your window is half a second!"
The secret weapon he built for Yogan was the high kick. Thousands of repetitions engraved the strike into muscle memory. It was no longer just a powerful kick; it fused speed, timing, and precision. Combined with his Godlike Reflexes, Yogan could seize that half-second opening like a hunter catching prey.
As preparations deepened, Yogan's prestige within AKA rose daily. But tall trees catch more wind.
One cruiserweight teammate—mediocre yet jealous—harbored resentment at the attention Yogan received. Paired with him during a gym sparring session, she grew reckless, making oversized movements and even attempting a dangerous leg-hook aimed at injuring Yogan's ankle.
Thanks to his reflexes he withdrew at the last instant, escaping the trap. He frowned but didn't retaliate immediately.
In the next round he gave no concessions. His footwork turned ghostlike; his punches struck like a venomous snake, precise and fierce. Within a minute he dropped the provocateur three times but never followed up, simply waiting for them to stand again. Finally he executed a classic double-leg takedown and cinched a flawless rear-naked choke, ending the session in seconds.
Afterward Yogan walked over to the ashen-faced fighter, handed them a bottle of water, and said calmly:
"We're family at AKA. Our fists unite against outsiders. If you have a grudge, earn respect with performance, not tricks."
His voice wasn't loud but every teammate heard. DC and Cain Velasquez nodded in approval. The provocateur bowed his head, muttered, "I'm sorry," and took the water.
By then Yogan was no longer just a talented contender; the aura of a leader had begun to emanate from him.
---
Fight week finally arrived. Team Yogan boarded a flight to Austin, Texas.
Leaning against the window, Yogan watched clouds drift by beneath the wings. His hands, thick with calluses from twelve weeks of brutal training, still bore unhealed scars on the knuckles. He sipped the tasteless electrolyte water Mary had prepared and felt the weakness from dehydration creeping in. In the next 48 hours he would enter the harshest phase of the cut.
Fighting in the Octagon was terrifying, but conquering the scale was sometimes the lonelier, more brutal battle. He closed his eyes. In his mind flickered Bermudez's face, blazing with fighting spirit, and the high kick he had drilled tens of thousands of times.
Austin—the Live Music Capital of the World—buzzed with indie bands, art, and tech start-ups. Yet in fight week a different powder-dry energy permeated the city.
As Team Yogan exited Bergstrom International Airport, the dry scorching air felt like sandpaper on Yogan's skin—a stark contrast to California's humid ocean breeze. Instinctively he squinted, pupils adjusting to the merciless southern sun. Every away match demanded rapid adaptation; that invisible battle began the moment he landed.
A black Chevrolet Suburban from the UFC idled by the curb. Inside, icy air conditioning sliced through the Texas heat. As the car rolled toward downtown, the scenery shifted from flat plains to low buildings.
Yogan didn't sightsee. His gaze might have been on the window, but his mind was locked on a distant point. Body and spirit were already in battle mode.
The fighters' hotel pulsed with tension. Thick carpet swallowed sound; occasionally a team pushed luggage carts stacked with training gear, wheels squeaking sharply. Everyone's eyes carried a mixture of calculation and weariness born of thirst. Even the corridor air felt heavier.
Inside Team Yogan's suite the curtains stayed drawn, blocking the Texas sun and creating a cave-like isolation. Mary took command like a strict quartermaster. She cleared the minibar of snacks and sugary drinks—poison for a weight-cutting athlete—and replaced them with white lunch boxes, each labeled with exact weights she'd brought from California: lean steamed cod and a few boiled asparagus spears.
Even the drinking water was special: distilled, with a custom electrolyte mix, each bottle marked with milliliters and times allowed to drink.
"From now until weigh-in you can't exceed 500 milliliters total," Mary said evenly, as if reading a medical report. "This is also your last meal. Once you finish, we begin final dehydration."
Yogan silently picked up the lunch box. He forked the tiny portion of fish and asparagus into his mouth. There was no flavor—his taste buds and nervous system were dulled by constant hunger and thirst. He chewed mechanically, providing his body with its last crumbs of energy. He felt like a wilting plant, every cell screaming for water.
A knock sounded. David Chen entered, his face serious.
"Yogan, Javier, DC—get ready. In an hour the pre-fight press conference starts."
He glanced at Yogan's pale lips, concern flickering but his voice staying professional. "The UFC confirmed the schedule. You and Bermudez are the co-main event, with a separate face-off. Remember: stay calm. Don't let him provoke you."
Coach Javier nodded. "Don't worry, David. Yogan knows what to do. That bull from Long Island can roar all he wants."
DC clapped a huge hand on Yogan's shoulder, a steady weight. "Kid, hang in there. The last 48 hours are hell, but once you make it to the scale you've won half the battle. Leave the rest to us."
Yogan looked up and managed a cracked-lipped smile, nodding without words. The real test was beginning.
---
The pre-match press conference unfolded in the hotel's largest ballroom. Hundreds of media members aimed cameras; flashes popped like summer lightning, illuminating the hall as if it were daylight. The air buzzed with conversations, hairspray, perfume, and the heat of electronics.
When Dennis Bermudez entered with his team the room ignited. Wearing a tight T-shirt with a massive "Long Island MMA" logo, tattoos covering his thick arms, he walked with a confident, almost arrogant smile, pumping fists at fans. He radiated a burning, aggressive energy, a walking flame.
Minutes later it was Yogan's turn. Wearing the UFC's official black tracksuit, zipper half open, he looked almost understated. His steps were slow but deliberate, steady as drumbeats. His face carried no extra expression; his deep gaze skimmed the flashing lights and moving heads as though all the noise belonged to another world. He was the eye of the storm—wind howling outside, silence within.
They sat at opposite ends of a long table, UFC President Dana White between them.
The Q&A began, tension rising with each question.
"Dennis Bermudez," a reporter from MMA Junkie asked first, "you previously said Yogan's takedown defense is like a paper wall. Isn't that too condescending for a ranked fighter?"
Bermudez grabbed the mic, leaned forward, and nearly shouted: "Flawless? No! You're all fooled by his flashy striking! I've studied every one of his fights—he's never faced a real, pure NCAA Division I wrestler. I'm not coming to box him. I'm coming to wrestle him. I'll pick him up, slam him down, and show him what true strength is!"
A low burst of laughter rolled through the audience. A reporter quickly turned to DC. "Mr. Cormier, as the core of AKA's wrestling system, how do you respond to Bermudez's remarks?"
DC took the microphone, a smile both sarcastic and dangerous.
"First, I admire the young man's confidence," he said. "But self-confidence and ignorance are separated by a thin line. He says he's coming to wrestle? Great. Cain Velasquez is a two-time NCAA champion, I'm an Olympic captain, Khabib is a Sambo world champion. Our AKA wrestling is championship wrestling—proven at the Olympics and the world's highest levels.
"What about Long Island wrestling? With all due respect, what have they accomplished of note in collegiate leagues?"
His words instantly escalated the conflict from fighter versus fighter to team versus team—AKA pride on the line. Cameras clicked faster; social media feeds exploded.
At the other end of the table Yogan sat unmoving, hands folded, eyes half-lidded. Outside he looked calm; inside he felt the familiar surge of heat rise then cool again, like a wave breaking on a rock. He wouldn't give Bermudez the satisfaction of a reaction.
Dana White glanced between them with a promoter's grin. Tension filled the ballroom like static before a storm. Everyone could sense it: when these two stepped into the Octagon, something explosive would happen.
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