Yogan posted a short update at the team's suggestion, a simple message of gratitude that nonetheless carried the weight of his recent triumph.
> "Thank you for your incredible support. The journey has just begun. We're aiming for the belt. #TeamAKA #TheFlash"
That night, Austin's best-known Texas barbecue restaurant was awash in the smell of smoke and sizzling meat. The owner, a lifelong UFC fan, had learned that Yogan and the entire AKA team were coming. Without hesitation he closed the restaurant to the public, clearing out every table so they could have the place to themselves for a private celebration.
The entire team came along for the feast. Nutritionist Mary, who had been the strictest guardian of Yogan's weight cut for weeks, smiled at him and raised her glass.
"Tonight, Mr. Champion," she said, "you can eat whatever you want. No rules, no restrictions."
When the first bite of crispy-on-the-outside, tender-on-the-inside beef brisket slid down his throat, Yogan almost groaned with pleasure. After months of cutting weight and eating bland meals, this tasted like the most delicious food in the universe. All his taste buds came alive at once.
"Hey! Cain! Slow down! Those are my ribs!"
DC's booming voice broke the moment. He reached across the table, trying to grab a plate of sizzling pork ribs from Cain's hands. Expressionless, Cain blocked DC with his fork and bit off a massive piece of rib.
"You want food? Use your wrestling skills and get it," Cain said softly, still chewing.
"You're provoking a hungry heavyweight who just finished cutting weight! You're playing with fire!" DC shouted dramatically, drawing laughs from the staff in the kitchen.
Coach Javier, like a benevolent father, sat at the head of the table sipping his beer in small, careful sips. His eyes were filled with compassion as he looked at his fighters. For a man who had shepherded dozens of champions, this scene of camaraderie was his true reward.
Yogan and David Chen sat together, watching DC and Cain bicker like two oversized children. They couldn't help but laugh.
This, Yogan thought, is what home feels like. After the brutal struggle of training camps and fights, there was always this warmth waiting—family, comfort, and belonging.
A Champion's Gratitude
Later, the celebration moved to the hotel's luxury suite. While his teammates lounged on couches and opened more drinks, Yogan checked his phone. An official UFC email had arrived.
He had won the "Performance of the Night" bonus—fifty thousand U.S. dollars wired straight into his account.
He looked up at the team, who were still laughing about the dinner, and spoke without hesitation.
"This money belongs to the team," he said firmly. "Javier, DC, Cain, Mary, David—the five of us will share this equally."
"Yogan, you deserve it!" DC shot back immediately. "We just did our jobs."
"That's right, this money is yours," Javier echoed, shaking his head.
But Yogan only smiled. Before they could refuse further, he dropped another bombshell.
"I'll also receive an additional one hundred thousand dollars from my win bonus," he said. "I'm giving that to the team as an extra reward."
The room fell silent. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
DC's mouth stayed open. Cain's eyes widened. Mary's eyes glistened. David Chen only nodded, his admiration plain. "I knew this kid would do it," he murmured.
Javier stepped forward, sighing with satisfaction, and pulled Yogan into a tight hug.
"Good boy," he said. "You didn't let us down."
In that moment, they were not just looking at a future champion, but at a grateful, loyal, virtuous young man. Yogan didn't care about the money—not because he was rich, but because the act of giving felt better than keeping.
Longing for Home
When the revelry finally subsided, the suite grew quiet. Teammates drifted back to their rooms. Barefoot, Yogan walked across the soft carpet to the floor-to-ceiling window. Below, Austin glittered like a field of stars. His pulse still raced with the adrenaline of victory, but a deep weariness was settling into his bones.
He unlocked his phone. The wallpaper was a photo taken before he left for America—him standing in front of his family's door, his mother smiling brightly, his father stern but proud. He touched their faces on the screen with his finger.
Almost two years had passed since he'd arrived in America as a naïve backpacker. More than seven hundred days and nights. Last year's Spring Festival he had spent in the AKA gym listening to Khabib teach wrestling while the smell of sweat filled the air. This year he would also be abroad.
A powerful longing wrapped around his heart like a vine. He missed home. He missed the pork his mother made, the awkward but deep love under his father's stern exterior.
It was time to visit.
Negotiations between the UFC and the Diamond Team would take months to finalize the time and venue of his next fight. At least a few months of rest were guaranteed. He wanted to use that time to return to his hometown—to bring back the fame and glory he had earned with his fists. It was human nature to return home with honor.
But first, there was something important to do: watch a fight that would determine the future of the Featherweight division—Conor McGregor's main event in Boston.
"Know yourself and know your enemy," Yogan explained to David Chen later that night. "Then you'll never be defeated."
David looked at the tiredness and longing in Yogan's eyes and nodded. "No problem, Yogan. You should have gone home a long time ago. I'll arrange everything. When you get back from Boston, we'll fly to China."
"Okay, my friend."
A Rare Interlude
Back in San Jose, Yogan allowed himself a rare, dreamy period of leisure. He skipped training at the AKA gym, letting his body and nerves—strung tight for months—finally relax. He turned off the alarm clock that had haunted him at 5 a.m. every day. For the first time, he slept until he woke naturally.
He went with Mary to the local farmers' market, where the air smelled of earth and fruit. Free from his strict diet, he sampled fresh strawberries at the stalls like a curious child, picking what he wanted to eat, not just what his body "needed."
With David Chen he toured San Jose's wealthiest neighborhoods, looking at houses. Standing before a modern villa overlooking the valley, the real-estate agent proudly described imported Italian marble and a state-of-the-art smart-home system. Yogan gazed silently at the infinity pool and the massive courtyard—large enough to build a full-size Octagon.
For the first time in America, the word "home" had a concrete meaning for him.
Money wasn't the issue. In his early twenties, Yogan was already a billionaire, thanks to investments in technology stocks that would reshape the world over the next decade. Fighting was his passion, not his livelihood.
"How is it? Do you like it here?" David asked quietly.
"Not bad," Yogan said. "Take this."
David smiled with calm confidence. He never asked where the money came from; his only job was to make more and handle Yogan's troubles.
"The question isn't whether we can buy it," David said, "it's where we actually want to live—Beverly Hills? Long Island? We can go anywhere."
"Let me think about it."
Yogan didn't know yet where he wanted to settle. For now, he simply enjoyed the colorful world of America. He went with David to an IMAX theater to see Christopher Nolan's Interstellar Transmigration, devouring a huge bucket of caramel popcorn and a giant Coke like any other young man in awe of the universe.
DC and Cain visited sometimes. They would all crowd into Yogan's small rented apartment, playing the latest Call of Duty and making childish jokes.
"Yogan! Right side! Cover me now, rookie!" DC shouted, gripping the controller as though he were commanding an army.
Calmly, Yogan moved the mouse, executed a perfect headshot, and replied, "Your aim is even worse than your shot."
DC choked, then laughed helplessly.
DC Time
But the luxurious tranquility didn't last. One evening Coach Javier sent a short message to the entire team:
> "Full team meeting tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM. DC Time officially begins."
No exclamation marks, just a cold statement. Everyone understood the seriousness behind it. A storm was coming.
Yogan looked at the message. The comfort and relaxation on his face vanished like mist blown away by a strong wind. He turned off the noisy game screen and sat upright. His short golden holiday was over.
At dawn, he pulled on his familiar training outfit—stained with sweat and glory—and headed to his second home.
When he pushed open the heavy doors of the AKA Training Gym, a completely different atmosphere hit him. Gone was the usual bustle and laughter. In its place was an almost solidified sense of focus and intensity. Fighters nodded at him but immediately returned to their brutal drills. Their eyes said: Welcome, soldier.
At the deepest corner of the gym, in a special Octagon, a figure was hammering a punching bag.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Each punch seemed to pierce through the heavy leather. Daniel "DC" Cormier's forehead was drenched, sweat streaming down his face onto the soaked floor. His eyes burned—not with ordinary fight fire, but with the fire of reckoning, where honor, dignity, and destiny were all at stake.
Yogan's triumphant return had been inspiring. Now it was DC's time. The entire soul of AKA shifted toward a single goal.
Daniel Cormier versus "Bones" Jon Jones—the best, most era-defining, grudge-filled Light Heavyweight fight of the century.
Coach Javier summoned Yogan to his office. The tactics board was covered with photos of Jon Jones and dense technical diagrams. In red pen, the terrifying 84.5-inch arm span was circled like a bloody warning.
"Welcome, Champion," Javier said. His face was tired, but his eyes shone brighter than ever.
"Thank you, Coach," Yogan replied. He could smell the battle already.
"The vacation is canceled," Javier said bluntly.
"I know." Yogan nodded. He had never once thought of standing aside at a moment like this.
Javier pointed to Jones's photo, his voice deadly serious. "Starting today, you have a new role. You'll be DC's most important training partner."
He tapped the picture of Jon Jones with his finger.
"You will be 'Shadow Jones.'"
It was a task that sounded almost impossible.
And so, the new war began.
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