Jon Jones was a unique fighter — a genius in every sense of the word.
At light heavyweight, he carried an almost unnatural reach of 2.15 meters yet could move and strike with the agility and creativity of a featherweight. His elusive, unpredictable kicks could slam into an opponent's knees like a sledgehammer or transform in an instant into a lethal high kick. Even his flicking fingers landed with unnerving accuracy at long range. Up close, his elbows and knees struck like venomous snakes, ripping through defenses and tearing flesh.
All of this combined to create a fighter who seemed almost indestructible. And Yogan's mission, at the famed AKA Training Gym in San Jose, was to recreate that monster in vivid detail.
"Why me?" Yogan asked, glancing at Coach Javier. He knew his own frame — taller, longer, heavier — was worlds apart from Jones's. Mimicking the man's physique was impossible.
"Because of your reflexes, your fight IQ, and your creativity," Javier replied, his eyes glinting. "I don't need you to imitate him physically; I need you to imitate his Dao — his soul. That unpredictability, that ability to disrupt familiar rhythms with unconventional weapons, that instinct to create order inside chaos. In this whole gym, you're the closest."
Yogan stared at the tactics board for a long moment. Memories from his past life flickered like a film reel. This fight — this very outcome — had already been etched in history. He remembered it with cruel clarity.
DC lost.
He had been crushed under Jones's distance control, suffocated by his demonic stamina. More than that, DC had been undone by Jones's extraordinary champion's mentality — the cold composure to keep winning even inside hell.
But what if?
What if, armed with knowledge from the future, Yogan could hand DC the sharpest weapons? Could he change what was "inevitable"?
He clenched his fists. He had to try.
"Okay, coach," Yogan said at last, flames flickering in his pupils. "I'll play Jon Jones."
For hours they sat in tactical discussion. Yogan, slipping into his role, offered an insight that made the entire technical team look up.
"Coach, DC, our usual pressure-heavy style won't work on Jones," Yogan said evenly. "He's best at using an opponent's aggression against them. He retreats, counters precisely, and drains you with his spiderweb clinch and wrestling. His grappling is his deadliest weapon — hidden under his flashy striking."
He began laying out details that no ordinary fighter could possibly know.
"First, the eye pokes. We have to be ready. Jones will repeatedly extend his fingers to disrupt vision and break rhythm. DC should train with slightly blurred goggles to simulate impaired sight."
"Second, cage wrestling. He'll pin his forearm across DC's neck, using short shoulders and knees to sap energy. We must drill three or four explosive escapes from that position."
"Third, stamina. Jones in round five is almost the same as Jones in round one. We can't count on an early finish. We need to prepare for a full twenty-five-minute war. DC's output each round must be as precise as a banker's interest calculation."
Each point was like a scalpel slicing into Jones's hidden advantages. DC and Javier exchanged looks of open surprise. They adopted all of Yogan's suggestions, building an even more detailed plan from his foundation.
Yet Yogan knew it might still not be enough. Because the opponent was Jon Jones. Even if you knew exactly what he would do, he was still almost impossible to stop.
Yogan's feelings toward Jones were complicated.
As a fighter, he couldn't help but respect the man's historic talent. But as a person with even basic moral standards, he deeply disliked him. Drunk driving, hit-and-runs, drugs, banned substances — the shadows clung to Jones's "Greatest of All Time" title like permanent stains. He strutted with arrogance, sneering at opponents and rules alike.
What disgusted Yogan most was Jones's careful fight-avoidance late in his career. When Francis Ngannou rampaged through heavyweight, Jones chose silence, waiting for the beast to leave. Later, when British phenom Tom Aspinall rose, Jones retired rather than face him, insisting on "fighting legends only."
A true king seeks out the strongest challengers. Jones, by then, resembled more a politician guarding his throne, eliminating threats with strategy instead of courage.
DC was the opposite. He might lack freakish gifts, but he possessed the heart of a golden champion. He always fought bigger, stronger men. He never calculated. He even delayed his move to heavyweight out of respect for his brother, and when he finally did, he faced Stipe Miocic at his peak without hesitation.
A true warrior. Pure, respected, unbowed.
And for that, Yogan desperately wanted DC to win — even if it meant rewriting history itself.
For six weeks the AKA gym became Yogan's stage and DC's hell.
Yogan immersed himself in "Shadow Jones." He widened his stance, loosened his body, moving with that catlike fluidity. He abandoned his own blitzing style, replacing it with lateral footwork and constant harassment with jabs and probing fingers. His kicks turned nastier, snapping into DC's calves and knees at awkward angles to blunt his power.
When DC shot for a takedown, Yogan slid back with feline agility and countered with pinpoint strikes.
"Hey, Yogan! Where'd you learn those damn kicks?" DC yelped after a sharp one buckled his knee.
"From your nightmares," Yogan replied in a lazy Jon Jones drawl, eyes cold.
DC charged like a bull, enraged. Yogan only sharpened, dissecting Jones's style until he wasn't merely copying it — he was understanding it. Every oblique kick set up a future strike or takedown. Every finger-feint mapped his opponent's reactions.
Playing one genius had elevated his own fight IQ to new heights. His grasp of distance control and rhythm shifts soared. He knew this experience would be priceless in his own future battles against long-range specialists.
Time streamed by.
January 3, 2015. Las Vegas.
The MGM Grand Garden Arena pulsed with anticipation.
Backstage, tension coiled like a living thing. DC sat with eyes closed, humming as a masseur loosened his muscles. Javier murmured tactical reminders in his ear. Cain and Luke stood guard at the door, shutting out the media.
Yogan quietly wrapped DC's gloves, pulling the white Velcro snug, circle after circle. He could feel the weight of DC's determination pressing like a mountain.
"DC," Yogan said softly.
DC opened his bloodshot eyes.
"No matter what he says or does, don't let him provoke you," Yogan said, voice firm. "Stay calm. You're the hunter, not the bull."
DC swallowed and nodded. "I understand."
It was time.
When DC entered the tunnel, the crowd roared in a wave of cheers. When Jon Jones appeared — the villain king, a fusion of brilliance and scandal — the sound turned to a chaotic mix of boos and applause.
Yogan and Javier stood cageside, hearts pounding to the DJ's battle anthem.
The fight began.
In the first two rounds DC performed brilliantly, executing their plan. He pressured with high-frequency punches, cut angles, pinned Jones against the fence, even lifted him off the ground a few times. Yogan's palms sweated as hope flickered.
But from the third round on, the tide shifted like ink in water.
Jones's stamina seemed otherworldly. He pressed DC with textbook clinch work, draining him with elbows and shoulders like a leech sucking blood. Twice in the fourth round he even took DC down — a humiliation for an Olympic wrestler.
By the fifth, DC's gas tank was empty. Jones stayed cold and efficient, striking with surgical precision.
When the final horn sounded, Jones raised his arms to the world. DC leaned against the fence, sweat and tears mingling, eyes hollow with disappointment.
The judges announced the unanimous decision. Jon Jones retained his title.
History had not changed.
Yogan stared at the victorious figure in the cage. Disgust fermented into something else — a calm, volcanic desire.
He wanted to defeat Jon Jones himself.
If he spoke it aloud, the world would laugh. A featherweight challenging the light-heavyweight GOAT? Madness.
But his eyes held no fantasy, only ruthless analysis. Jones's power came from his reach — a unique space-time advantage that gave him extra reaction windows.
But what if someone's neural speed could erase that window?
What if someone's vision could predict the entire sequence of a move the instant it began?
Jones's gift was physical. Yogan's was temporal.
Time against space. His only chance.
Reaction alone wouldn't be enough. He'd need weight, strength, refined technique, years of hellish work.
But tonight, on the night of DC's defeat, he planted the seed himself.
A distant, almost insane goal.
Yet one day, achievable.
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