Yogan looked across the arena at the legendary champion, "Spider" Anderson Silva, who sat quietly among the crowd. Silva's expression was calm yet dignified, his long fingers coming together in a polite, restrained applause for the victor inside the cage.
Both Silva and Jon Jones were geniuses, rulers in their own right. Yet the "Spider's" greatness lay in his elegant, elusive, almost artistic temperament—he treated combat like a painter treats his canvas, with respect and reverence. Jones, by contrast, resembled a cold machine, a predator that bent every rule of victory until it snapped in his favor.
Backstage, the crew moved like shadows. Nobody spoke. The only sounds were the faint squeak of shoes on linoleum and the occasional metallic clink of gear being packed away. The locker room was steeped in a deathly silence, as if the very air had frozen into ice.
Daniel Cormier—DC—sat in a corner on a wooden bench, his broad shoulders slumped. His massive frame, so powerful in the Octagon, trembled slightly. A towel stained with sweat and blood hid his face. Nobody approached him. Nobody tried to talk. Everyone knew what this defeat meant.
This wasn't just the loss of a championship belt. It was the shattering of pride, the collapse of years of rivalry and honor between him and Jones. Finally, from under the towel came a muffled, animal-like sob—a sound no one expected from a man so strong. The giant grizzly of the cage, the cheerful big brother of the gym, was crying like a helpless child.
He had lost the most important fight of his career.
Coach Javier's eyes were red as well. He stepped forward, opened his mouth to say something, but the words died on his tongue. Instead, he placed a heavy hand on DC's shoulder—a single, firm slap that said what words could not.
Cain Velasquez and Luke Rockhold stood nearby like statues, heads bowed, hands clasped.
Yogan's heart twisted as he watched. This was the true face of fighting—glory one moment, ruthless devastation the next. The sport could lift you to the clouds, then smash you into pieces before you took your next breath.
He didn't offer empty lines like "It's okay" or "Next time." Instead, he walked quietly over, sat beside DC, and wrapped an arm around the crying giant. A silent gesture of understanding and support.
Slowly, DC's sobs turned into ragged breaths. He could feel the quiet, steady strength radiating from Yogan, a warmth cutting through his despair. In that moment, something unspoken passed between them. This shared failure, this pain, forged a bond deeper than mere training partners. They were no longer just teammates; they were brothers. A family that fought together, bled together, and now cried together.
Two Weeks of Shadows
A heavy, oppressive cloud hung over the American Kickboxing Academy (AKA) for the next two weeks after they returned to San Jose from Las Vegas. Strangely, the gloom wasn't in the training hall itself—it was in what was missing from it.
Since the night of the crushing defeat, Daniel Cormier had not once walked through the doors of AKA. Officially, he was under a 45-day medical suspension from the Nevada State Athletic Commission for "preventive observation and facial bruising," which barred him from combat training. But everyone knew the real reason.
Coach Javier had gone to DC's home. He came back shaking his head, saying DC barely moved from the couch. He spent his days in pajamas, curled up, numbly watching sports channels on repeat. His eyes were vacant, his phone ignored calls from friends and family. He refused interviews. He was isolating himself physically and spiritually from the world.
Without DC's booming laughter, AKA felt like a feast that had lost its spice. Even Cain Velasquez, usually quiet as a mountain, would glance at the gym door during breaks as if expecting DC to walk in. But the door stayed closed, and the team's morale kept slipping.
Yogan saw it all. He knew cheap sympathy would insult a proud man like DC. Simple consolation would prick his fragile self-esteem like a needle. What DC needed was an opportunity—something powerful enough to yank him out of the abyss.
The Visit
Three days before Conor McGregor's next fight, Yogan decided he wouldn't wait any longer. He didn't call—he knew DC would refuse. Instead, he drove straight to DC's suburban home in San Jose.
When the door opened, DC's wife stood there. Tiredness lined her face, but a flicker of hope sparked in her eyes.
"Yogan. You're here."
"How is he?" Yogan asked.
"Still the same." She stepped aside to let him in.
In the living room, a huge figure was curled on the sofa like a wounded bear. A basketball game flickered on the television, but DC wasn't watching.
"DC," Yogan said softly.
Cormier's shoulders tensed but he didn't turn around. Yogan didn't waste time with comforting words. He set a printed first-class plane ticket on the coffee table.
"Pack your bags," Yogan said. "Come with me to Boston."
DC slowly turned his head. His bloodshot eyes wavered for the first time in days. "For what?" His voice was hoarse.
"To watch a show," Yogan replied. "Conor McGregor versus Dennis Siver."
DC frowned. He had no interest in that loud Irishman. "I don't want to move," he muttered.
"To clear your head," Yogan's tone was firm. "And to make some money. Money that will make you feel better. Think of it as collecting interest on the prize money Dana White still owes you."
DC blinked. The still water inside him rippled like a stone had dropped. Maybe it was a good idea to leave the house of disappointment and go somewhere new. He looked at the ticket again and, after a long pause, nodded.
The Journey East
Two days later the odd trio boarded a flight to Boston: a dejected Daniel Cormier, a calm and cool Yogan, and David Chen—financial manager, travel planner, and babysitter rolled into one.
Inside the first-class cabin, Yogan's "Wealth Code Analysis Session" began. Without mentioning Jones once, he turned his tablet toward DC and David. Dennis Siver's recent fight footage played on the screen.
"David, check the odds for me," Yogan instructed. "Round-by-round, especially."
David tapped on his laptop. "Conor by knockout overall: 1.85. But if you bet on the exact round, it's interesting. Conor KO in round one: 3.5. Conor KO in round two: 12.0."
"12.0?" DC raised an eyebrow. "That high? Nobody thinks he can finish exactly in the second?"
Yogan smiled and began his analysis. He slowed the footage and drew a circle with his finger.
"Look at Siver's center of gravity," he said. "Solid footwork but no lateral flexibility—typical old-school kickboxer. Like a tank with rusty tracks."
"A perfect, almost immobile target, gift-wrapped for Conor, who controls distance like a master."
He switched to McGregor's highlights. "Conor's style is extreme distance control. He uses tricky footwork to create the perfect left-hand shot. Siver's defense can't keep up. He'll be slowly dismantled until his guard collapses."
Yogan raised two fingers. "First round: Conor plays cat and mouse, collects data, breaks Siver's confidence. Second round: when the crowd's at peak excitement, he ends it with a precise left hand."
He looked up. "So: Conor, round two, knockout."
DC and David exchanged astonished glances. This wasn't just tactical analysis—it was prophecy.
"David," Yogan said calmly, "use my spare funds. One hundred thousand dollars, all on Conor by KO in round two."
David's jaw dropped. "One hundred thousand?! Yogan, that's not an investment, that's gambling!"
"No," Yogan said, turning to DC. His voice softened but stayed firm. "This is faith. DC, I know you're hurting. Trust me. This is your chance to get something back."
DC's heart pounded. He remembered Yogan's devilishly precise breakdown of Jones before their fight—every prediction had been right. This young man saw what others couldn't.
TD Garden, Boston – January 18, 2015
The TD Garden was a seething, emerald ocean. Thousands of Irish fans had turned it into their holy land. Yogan, DC, and David sat in VIP seats by the cage.
"Hey, DC!" a voice boomed.
They turned to see "Cigano" Junior dos Santos, the number-one heavyweight. He hugged DC hard. "Brother, don't worry about that fight. You fought well. That bastard was lucky. Next time you'll tear him apart!"
"Thank you, Junior." DC tried to smile.
More familiar faces followed. Lightweight veteran "Cowboy" Donald Cerrone handed DC a beer, tipping his iconic hat toward Yogan. "Hey kid, great job. Looking forward to your fight with Dustin—Mars versus Earth!"
"Thanks, Cowboy," Yogan replied politely.
Even UFC President Dana White came over, belly shaking with his grin, and punched DC's shoulder. "Keep your head up, Daniel. You're the best. One loss won't break you. We'll book your next fight soon—we need you." He turned to Yogan. "Kid, that high kick was something else. Your future's limitless."
Then a muscular man in a suit approached—Chael Sonnen, DC's former commentary partner. Known for "trash talk," he was nonetheless a true friend.
"Daniel, man, good to see you," Sonnen said.
"I'm fine, Chael," DC nodded.
Sonnen's eyes fell on the betting slip David held. He saw the "Second Round KO" option and the fifty-thousand-dollar figure. His expression changed instantly.
"Daniel! Are you crazy?" he hissed. "You just lost a fortune. Now you're betting your daughter's college money on this kid's hunch?" He shot Yogan a skeptical glance.
"Listen to me, Daniel. Conor is strong, but Siver's tough. Anything can happen. Pull the bet. Let's go have a drink instead."
His friend's plea rattled DC. He looked at Sonnen's worried face, then at Yogan's calm, steady eyes. Finally, with a deep breath, he made his choice.
"Don't touch it!" DC barked at David. "Bet now. Fifty thousand. Not a penny less."
He chose to trust his brother's logic over his friend's caution.
Sonnen shook his head, sighed, and walked away.
---
(End of Chapter 28 excerpt)
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