During a lull in the celebrations, Yogan slid down from Daniel Cormier's shoulder. The crowd inside the arena was still roaring, but he ignored the deafening noise and walked toward the opposite corner. The medical team was kneeling beside Dennis Bermudez, fanning him with towels and shining a light into his pupils. The veteran wrestler sat on the floor, eyes wide with disbelief. Even in defeat, his stare carried a strange admiration, as though he were looking at a creature he could not fully understand.
Yogan extended his hand. Bermudez hesitated for a heartbeat, then gripped it firmly. In that brief clasp, everything unsaid between fighters—respect, recognition, the shared pain of preparation—was exchanged. The crowd, sensing the moment, applauded again.
Joe Rogan hurried over with a microphone, his face flushed with excitement. "Yogan! Oh my God!" he shouted above the din. "That was one of the most perfect defensive counterattacks I've ever seen. You neutralized one of the best wrestlers in the division and then finished him with a spectacular flying knee! Tell us—how did you pull that off?"
Yogan took the microphone, inhaling slowly to steady his pounding heart. He turned toward the camera first and spoke in Chinese: "Thank you to all the fans back home who supported me. This victory belongs to you—and to my amazing team at the AKA Training Gym!"
Switching seamlessly into English, he continued, voice calm but still vibrating with adrenaline: "It's all about preparation. We practice takedown defense every single day, and we drill every possible scenario. Dennis is a tough opponent. I respect him. But tonight, I was the better man."
Joe Rogan grinned, shaking his head. "Yogan, you've now proven that you're unquestionably one of the best featherweights in the world. Your ranking will jump into the top ten. What's next? Who's your target? The whole division is waiting to hear."
The arena went quiet. Tens of thousands held their breath.
Yogan smiled, already knowing his answer. "Joe, I didn't come to the UFC just to get ranked. I came to fight the toughest fights and challenge the strongest opponents." His eyes locked onto the camera lens as if addressing someone specific on the other side. "Every fighter in the top ten is a beast. But one in particular catches my attention."
He paused, letting the tension build. Then he spoke, word by word, like hammer strikes on steel:
"Dustin Poirier. Diamond. I follow your fights. I love your style—you never back down. You have the heart of a champion. You are a true fighter."
A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd. Compliment and challenge, wrapped in one sentence.
Yogan's tone hardened, his Battle Intent surfacing. "So I want to fight you. I want to see who's sharper—your heavy hands from Louisiana, or my lightning strikes from the East. Dustin, I know you're on your way to the championship, but to reach the throne you'll have to surpass me first. I am the strongest and most dangerous cornerstone on your path."
He raised his voice toward the matchmakers: "Sean Shelby! Dana White! Book my fight with Diamond—this year, anytime, anywhere. Let's show the world who truly owns the future of the featherweight division!"
The arena exploded. Yogan handed the microphone back to Joe Rogan, turned, and raised both arms. The challenge had been delivered—clear, logical, respectful, yet unmistakably threatening. He wasn't begging for a fight. He was declaring himself ready to shape the division's future.
---
The Press Conference
Hours later the bright, crowded media room buzzed with anticipation. Reporters from ESPN, Fox Sports, Yahoo Sports and every major MMA outlet were jammed shoulder to shoulder. All cameras tracked the young man from the East as he walked slowly down the corridor, the red five-star flag draped across his shoulders. His stride was steady, his gaze serene—like the earlier knockout had been just another training round.
At the center table sat UFC president Dana White, unusually dressed in a crisp shirt instead of his trademark black tee. His smile stretched like sunlight. Before Yogan even reached his seat, Dana began speaking into the mic:
"Yogan's performance was absolutely superb! That knee—oh my God—one of the most spectacular and deadliest knockouts I've seen tonight. This kid is a superstar!"
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "And as for his call-out of Diamond? I'm so, so curious. It's a logical pairing—two of the most exciting young fighters in the division. Who wouldn't want to see that fight?" His words felt like an unofficial green light for a future war.
The Q&A started. A veteran reporter from MMA Junkie stood first. "Yogan, congratulations. Can you walk us through how you defended against 'The Wrestler's' onslaught and seized the chance to land that incredible flying knee?"
Yogan adjusted the mic, scanning the first row until his eyes met Sean Shelby's and Dana White's approving looks. He cleared his throat. "First of all, I want to thank Dennis. He was tough—a real warrior. Secondly, all credit goes to my team at AKA Training Gym." He gestured toward Javier Mendez and his teammates. "For twelve weeks we practiced takedown defense every day. My brothers Daniel Cormier and Cain Velasquez played Dennis in training and tortured me with Olympic-level wrestling. What you saw tonight was simply a reenactment of countless sessions in the gym."
He paused, recalling Javier's words before the fight. "We predicted that when Dennis's stamina faded and his mentality cracked, he would make the most reckless mistake. All I did was wait patiently, like a hunter waiting for prey to enter the trap. Then we executed the plan we'd drilled tens of thousands of times."
Reporters scribbled furiously, nodding at the clarity of his answer.
A senior ESPN reporter rose next with a sharper question. "Yogan, your ranking will clearly be top ten now, and your call-out was effective. But fans are wondering—why challenge Dustin Poirier, a respected striker, instead of Conor McGregor, who's provoked you repeatedly on social media?"
The room hushed. Everyone leaned forward.
A faint smile curved Yogan's lips. "I respect Conor. He's a marketing genius and a talented fighter." He let the acknowledgment sink in before continuing. "However, I have more respect for pure fighters. Dustin Poirier never gets into trash talk; he brings his Louisiana-bred punches into the Octagon and fights man-to-man. Every fight he shows courage, passion and an unyielding spirit. That's the fighter's philosophy I admire. That's the kind of opponent I want. It's not about commercial value or social media noise; it's about respect between martial artists."
His answer drew murmurs of approval. Dana White's grin widened; he even led the applause. A new star with a traditional martial virtue—exactly the contrast UFC needed to its brashest name.
Then came the final, provocative question from an Irish outlet. "Just now Conor McGregor tweeted, 'Some people don't even dare mention the King's name after a victory,' with a clown emoji. What's your response?"
The room tensed, expecting fireworks. Yogan merely smiled, unscrewed his water bottle and took a slow sip, exuding composure. He set the bottle down and said evenly, "A true king never cares what a clown talks about."
Silence, then a burst of laughter and applause. The line landed like a perfect counterpunch—short, sharp, devastating.
"When he earns his ticket to challenge the throne, we can talk," Yogan added. "For now, my target is Dustin Poirier."
The press conference ended in a lively buzz.
---
Backstage
Surrounded by his team, Yogan walked down the long corridor to his private dressing room. Daniel Cormier's booming voice echoed: "'A king never cares what a clown talks about!' Oh my God, Yogan, you're a born orator. I'm printing that on a T-shirt!"
Cain Velasquez, usually stoic, cracked a rare smile and patted Yogan's shoulder. "Well done."
David Chen, the team's manager, was nearly shaking with excitement, waving his phone. "Look, Yogan—while you were at the press conference, Diamond answered!"
On the screen Dustin Poirier's tweet glowed:
> "Congratulations @Yogan on your amazing performance. You want a fight? No problem. I'm not afraid of anyone. Let's give the fans what they want. Be ready for battle."
The attached photo showed Poirier mid-training, fists clenched, eyes burning with determination. Direct, sharp, filled with fighter's pride.
Yogan nodded, eyes narrowing. "Very good." The harbinger of war had begun.
David's finger slid to another set of numbers. "And this! Your follower count just exploded. Twitter jumped from a hundred thousand to nearly eight hundred thousand within hours. Instagram has surpassed one million. On Weibo, it's already at five million—three of the top ten trending topics are about you!"
He turned the phone toward them, voice trembling. "Do you know what that means? Top-tier commercial value."
Yogan scrolled through the flood of messages. Red notification dots turned into an endless ellipsis.
> "That high kick was a work of art! Future champion!"
"Your footwork and takedown defense against a D1 wrestler was phenomenal. AKA's system is next level."
"Yogan-ge, you bring glory and honor to the country. You're the pride of Chinese power!"
"Conor talks. Yogan acts. Greetings from Brazil."
"I've practiced Sanda for ten years. Watching you knock him out with that knee brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for showing Chinese martial arts on the world stage!"
The outpouring of global enthusiasm washed over him. For a moment he felt an unfamiliar weight—fame's tidal force—but also a steady warmth, the realization that he had truly stepped onto the world's highest stage.
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