The moment the bell rang, the TD Garden erupted. Green flags waved, Irish songs thundered from the stands, and a rolling tide of voices lifted Conor McGregor and Dennis Siver into a cauldron of noise.
For Yogan the roar felt strangely muted, like hearing a storm through double-paned glass. He had seen this match before—on the flight, in his head, on the tablet screen. Every step, every feint, every outcome had been mapped like a chess game. Tonight the board was merely catching up to the vision.
Round One
Conor came out loose, smiling, his left hand dangling like a loaded trap. He circled on his toes with a dancer's arrogance, launching flashy spinning kicks and crisp, teasing jabs. Each strike landed with surgical precision yet carried the lightness of someone sketching rather than stabbing.
Across from him Siver looked like a man stuck in quicksand. No matter how he lunged or retreated, he stayed inside Conor's invisible cage. The Irishman's distance control was a spider's web; Siver was the fly, buzzing, straining, hopeless.
At cageside Yogan sat with his arms folded, expression unreadable. Beside him DC leaned forward on his seat, massive hands pressed together, breathing harder than the fighters themselves. David Chen thumbed anxiously at his betting app as the seconds ticked down.
Exactly as predicted, Conor refused to finish the fight in the opening round. He played, probed, humiliated, stole Siver's confidence inch by inch. The crowd adored the show, chanting and stomping with each extravagant kick.
The Moment
One minute and fifty-four seconds into Round Two it happened.
Siver shifted his lead foot a fraction too far, trying to cut an angle. Conor's eyes flickered. His hips turned. A left hand—short, sudden, like a cannonball—exploded from his shoulder and smashed into Siver's jaw.
The veteran collapsed instantly. Conor pounced like a tiger descending from the mountain, raining down hammerfists and elbows until the referee dove between them.
Knockout.
For a heartbeat the arena held its breath, then detonated. People jumped to their feet, beer spraying, flags whipping. The sound rolled like thunder.
DC shot up from his chair, mouth gaping, fists clenched. "He was right," he muttered. "He was really right… even the round!"
Not far away Chael Sonnen froze mid-gesture, staring at Yogan as if he'd seen a ghost in daylight. The bet slip in his memory burned like a brand—second-round KO, twelve-to-one odds. Unreal.
Conor's Leap
Then the most dramatic scene of the night unfolded. Fired by adrenaline, Conor vaulted the Octagon fence in a single fluid motion, aiming straight for featherweight champion José Aldo at cageside. Security scrambled, fans screamed.
But halfway there Conor stopped, turned, and locked eyes with Yogan.
He pointed directly at him, his grin sharp as a blade, and roared into the live microphones in his thick Dublin accent:
"Hey, China boy! Keep my seat warm! After I get that belt, you're next on the menu!"
The insult echoed around the arena. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cameras swung to catch Yogan's reaction.
He did not flinch. He did not shout back. Instead he sat perfectly still, a faint smile curling his lips, hands rising in slow applause. In his eyes glimmered the mild amusement of an adult watching a child throw a tantrum.
The contrast was brutal: one man roaring like a king marking his territory, the other serene as a prophet who has already seen the future.
Gradually the chaos ebbed. Conor vanished into the fighter's tunnel, still shouting. The Irish flags swayed like green flames in the aftershock.
DC exhaled and turned to Yogan, who remained calm as a still pond. "This guy… he's crazy," DC muttered, disgust mixing with reluctant admiration. "But you have to admit, Yogan, he's strong. Very strong."
He shook his head. "His distance, his timing, his mental toughness… he turns pressure into fuel. He's going to be a nightmare on his road to the title."
Yogan's playful expression faded into something like respect. His eyes stayed fixed on the tunnel where Conor had disappeared. "I agree," he said quietly. "I want to fight him too."
He paused, then dissected aloud: "His left hand is truly a gift from God—accurate, heavy, always from impossible angles. But he depends on it. He's like a top-tier sniper with the best rifle in the world. Force him into a dirty street fight, make him miss a few shots, and his mentality wobbles. The louder he shouted today, the deeper the thorn I planted in his heart."
DC listened, awed. Yogan didn't just predict fights; he probed psyches with surgical precision. "You're something else," DC murmured. "Lucky we're not in the same weight class."
Yogan only smiled, thinking, Maybe one day I'll fight at light heavyweight too.
The Ride Back
As the crowd thinned, they followed Sonnen out to the waiting stretch limousine. Inside, the door shut and muted the city's roar. David Chen tapped furiously on his phone; Sonnen sat across from Yogan, staring like a man confronting a monster, shame flickering in his eyes.
He scratched his head. "Kid… no—Yogan." His voice dropped. "I owe you an apology. Before the fight I thought Daniel was throwing away his last savings, underestimating how broken he was after losing to Jones. I was wrong. So wrong."
Sonnen's gaze hardened with respect. "I take back everything. You're the scariest man I've ever met. Your brain's more lethal than your fists."
DC's chest swelled with pride. He punched Sonnen's shoulder, grinning. "Chael! Now you know. My brother's a prophet! At AKA we call him…" He drew the syllables out theatrically: "Pro-phet… Con-quest!"
The nickname "AKA Prophet" stuck from that night forward, given weight by the future two-division champion himself.
Back at the Hotel
The limousine glided to a stop before the Four Seasons. In the lobby they bumped into a group of fighters fresh from the event. At the head was Cowboy Donald Cerrone, hat tilted, grin wide.
"Hey! Yogan!" he called. "You're famous now! That Conor guy just mentioned you at the press conference—said your calm face bothered him and one day he'd lock you in a cage to wipe that smile off!"
Cerrone mimicked Conor's accent, earning laughter. Yogan merely tilted his head, amused. He'd achieved what he wanted: a bloodless thorn of anxiety lodged in the Irishman's heart.
Beside him DC practically radiated energy, his earlier gloom gone. He threw an arm around Yogan's shoulders and boasted to Cowboy and the others: "Of course! Just my brother's routine. Little stuff. We're going upstairs to pop champagne. If you hear screams, don't call the cops—that just means we passed out counting money!"
The private elevator whisked them toward the top-floor suite. DC bounced on his heels like a kid at Christmas. "Quick, David! Don't keep us waiting. Open heaven's gates!"
David Chen, usually unflappable, allowed himself a sly smile. "Prepare yourself, Daniel. The number you're about to see might change your definition of making money."
The Reveal
Inside the suite the atmosphere turned electric. David connected his laptop to the projector and splashed the betting account across a white wall. A giant red figure glowed like molten metal.
$600,000.00.
Six hundred thousand dollars.
DC's roar rattled the windows. "My God!" He spun to Yogan, grabbed him around the waist, and hoisted him off the ground, turning in circles. "You're not 'Lightning'—you're the Prophet! Oh my God!"
The sting of losing to Jones evaporated, replaced by adrenaline, laughter, and awe at Yogan's foresight. Yogan's own winnings—double DC's—barely dented his account, but the sight of his brother's grin was priceless.
Word spread fast. DC and Sonnen's big mouths plus cageside reporters turned the story viral. On forums and social media "Lightning" Yogan was no longer just a knockout artist—he was the "AKA Prophet," a fighter-seer who could read the future.
More Good News
Amid the revelry David raised his hand for silence, eyes shining. "One more thing," he said. "Yogan, your Under Armour contract. They've decided to gamble big. Three-year deal, six million dollars total. With a championship clause—win the belt and it doubles automatically."
Even by 2015 standards it was staggering: two million a year for a non-champion. "This isn't just sponsorship," David explained. "It's a strategic investment. They want you as the face of Chinese sports before Nike and Reebok lock the market. UA's global VP wants a massive signing press conference when you get back to China."
Before Yogan could reply his phone buzzed. Coach Javier's name lit the screen.
"Congratulations, Mr. Prophet," came the coach's voice, laughter hiding behind gruffness. "But I'm not calling about gambling. David says you're heading back to China."
"Yes, Coach."
"I approve the vacation, but promise me three things." His tone sharpened. "First: maintain basic training. Five-kilometre runs every day, core work. Second: no risky activities—skiing, surfing, racing, nothing. Third and most important: control your mouth. Every pound you gain is a trip to hell. Keep your weight like it's gold. Otherwise when you return I'll show you something worse than hell."
Yogan listened, excitement cooling into focus. No matter how much money he made, how many contracts he signed, his foundation remained the same: a lone warrior in the Octagon.
"I promise, Coach," he said seriously.
"Good. Enjoy your vacation. You deserve it."
The line clicked off.
Yogan slipped the phone back into his pocket. Around him DC and David still celebrated, champagne corks popping, money screenshots filling their phones. Outside the suite, somewhere below, the story of the "AKA Prophet" rolled through forums and headlines, growing with each retelling.
Inside, Yogan leaned against the window, Boston's winter lights glittering beneath him. He felt the pull of the future—Conor's glare, the crowd's roar, the coach's warning. Money, fame, prophecy: all pieces on the same board. The real game waited beyond the next fight.
And Yogan, calm as ever, was already playing it.
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