The plane touched down smoothly, its landing gear squealing against the tarmac before gliding to a gentle stop. Through the oval window, Yogan stared at the skyline beyond the airport—those familiar yet strangely distant towers of glass and steel rising into the hazy sky.
Two years.
Seven hundred days and nights.
He had finally come home.
"Yogan," David Chen murmured, tugging at his tie as they waited for the jet bridge to lock onto the plane. "We'll go straight through the VIP channel. The agency staff is waiting outside, and I've told them to keep everything under wraps."
Yogan gave a small nod, slipped on a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, and followed David off the plane. He had expected a discreet arrival—no press, maybe a few die-hard fans. Nothing more.
But as they turned down the long corridor and pushed through the heavy glass doors of the VIP channel, both men froze.
On the other side of the door was not the empty parking area they had imagined.
It was a sea of people.
Hundreds—maybe thousands—of passionate fans packed the exit, spilling over the barriers. Long and short camera lenses jutted out like a forest of spears. The moment Yogan appeared, a wall of flashbulbs exploded like summer lightning, blinding him.
"Ahhh! It's Yogan!" someone shrieked.
"Brother Yogan, look over here!" shouted another.
The screams crashed together, rolling through the hall like thunder.
Unlike the loose, rowdy chants of American fight crowds, these voices were disciplined, organized. Support banners of yellow characters on a red background unfurled above heads, Chinese aesthetics painted in bold strokes:
> Kung Fu Dasheng – Pride of the Nation!
Lightning Boy, Welcome Home!
Brother Yogan, You're Great!
Each wave of slogans rose louder than the last, forming a tidal sound that pounded at the eardrums.
Yogan stood rooted to the spot. He had expected a handful of reporters at most, but never a scene like this—this was the treatment of a pop idol, not an MMA fighter.
Beside him, David Chen instinctively raised his phone to record, muttering under his breath, "My God… this is insane…"
Just then, a familiar bellow cut through the chaos.
"Make way! Don't push!"
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a sweat-stained shirt was muscling through the crowd—Reporter Gao from Combat Weekly. Behind him, several temporary security guards wrestled to open a gap.
"Quick, this way!" Gao shouted, grabbing Yogan's arm and shielding him and David as they pushed toward the waiting van.
Inside the car, the noise outside died like a snuffed candle.
Yogan pulled off his sunglasses and exhaled, his forehead damp with sweat.
"You're a different man now," Gao said, handing him a bottle of water. "You beat Bermudez, challenged 'Diamond,' then waged that long-distance war of words with Conor in Boston. The domestic fight scene has gone crazy. You're the standard-bearer now, a real star."
Yogan only smiled faintly. His gaze drifted out the window to the street beyond—tall buildings, plane trees lining the sidewalks, the peculiar scent of home in the air. This quiet, unassuming scenery felt more real than the thunder of fans. It touched him deeper than any media frenzy.
That evening, as arranged by his agency, Yogan and David dined briefly in the city before boarding a high-speed train to his real hometown.
The car wound its way through an old but lively residential district. Yogan's heartbeat quickened. He stopped at a familiar iron security door, took a long breath, and pressed the doorbell.
The door swung open.
His mother stood there, eyes instantly brimming with tears. For a heartbeat she was frozen, then she lunged forward, wrapping him in a fierce embrace.
"Xiao Yogan…"
Her hands roamed his back and arms as if to make sure he was whole. "You've lost weight… are you injured again? Let me see…"
Behind her, his father stood stiffly, eyes wet but voice gruff. "Glad you're back." He stepped forward and thumped his son's shoulder, the sound muffled. "You're darker. Stronger."
From the kitchen came the aroma of boiled pork simmering on the stove. On the dining table sat sweet-and-sour ribs, cola-braised wings, steamed sea bass—all the home-cooked dishes of his childhood.
No one talked about fights. No one talked about money. His mother kept piling food into his bowl, asking whether he had been eating well in America, whether he slept enough. His father poured him a glass of wine and listened, pride leaking through his stoic face as Yogan told stories about training at AKA.
This simple warmth, this everyday ordinariness, was the refuge he had longed for amid the blood and fire of the Octagon.
The next morning, Yogan rose early. "Dad, Mom," he said, "come with me. I want to show you something."
Bewildered, they followed him to the city's most luxurious real-estate showroom.
"Xiao Yogan," his mother whispered, tugging at his sleeve as they entered the marble-floored lounge. "Why are we here? The houses must cost a fortune! Our place is nice enough…"
His father frowned too, suspecting extravagance.
Yogan only smiled and squeezed their hands. "Dad, Mom, I haven't been struggling for nothing these past two years. And I don't just make money fighting."
They knew he had a knack for investing. Over the years he had phoned occasionally with stock tips, and their savings had multiplied. But they had never imagined how large his fortune had grown.
He pointed to the largest duplex garden villa on the model table. "Let's see this one."
Under the astonished stares of the sales staff, they toured a lavishly decorated mansion complete with its own garden.
"Do you like it?" Yogan asked softly.
His parents were speechless, only nodding.
"Good. We'll take it."
He handed over his black card. "Full payment. Complete the paperwork immediately."
With a swipe, tens of millions of yuan vanished from his account. His parents and the saleswoman alike seemed caught in a dream.
When the deed and keys were placed in their hands, Yogan spoke solemnly:
"Dad, Mom—this is just the beginning. From now on, enjoy life. Leave the rest to me."
He was no longer just a fighter bringing victories home. He was a man strong enough to shoulder his family's future.
After some peaceful days, Yogan stopped by the old Zhenwei Martial Arts Gym. The walls were the same; only the students had changed. Coach Zhang Lei greeted him with a crushing hug.
"Well done, kid! You've brought glory to our gym!"
That night Yogan treated Zhang Lei and the staff to dinner. Glasses clinked; memories flowed. Zhang Lei raised his drink, eyes glistening. "Xiao Yogan, you're the golden phoenix who flew from here. No matter how high or far you soar, remember—Zhenwei will always be your home."
Yogan drained his glass. Thousands of words, all in wine.
Soon he returned to Beijing for the Under Armour signing ceremony. The press conference was grand—sports officials, business elites, even entertainment stars. In a tailored suit, Yogan shed the aura of a killer and revealed the composure of an international celebrity.
Afterward, Jiang Hua—the founder of China's premier MMA event Kunlun Fight—personally called him.
"Yogan, I've admired you for a long time. We're holding a special women's MMA event tonight—The Legend of Mulan. Would you join us as a guest?"
Respecting this pioneer of Chinese martial arts, Yogan readily agreed.
That evening the stadium was packed. When Yogan entered, applause rippled through the arena.
Backstage, as Jiang Hua led him through the prep area, Yogan's gaze caught on a figure warming up in a corner—a girl with tanned skin, a simple ponytail, and a face hardened by training rather than beauty.
But her eyes burned like coals, filled with hunger for victory and unbending will.
Yogan's heart skipped. Zhang Weili.
He knew what this seemingly ordinary girl would one day achieve—becoming the pride of China and one of the UFC's most dominant champions. In his previous life he had admired her as a war goddess who carved a world with her fists. Now, seeing her toil in obscurity stirred a complex blend of respect, appreciation, and a trace of pity.
The fight began.
Zhang Weili faced an experienced Thai opponent. Her technique was still raw, her defense full of gaps, but her ferocity and natural strength turned her into a tiger, again and again driving her opponent to the brink. Blood streaked her face, yet her eyes never wavered.
Yogan watched from the front row, nodding.
During the break, an announcer handed him a microphone. "Mr. Yogan, as a world-class MMA fighter, how do you rate Zhang Weili's performance?"
He turned toward the blood-streaked girl in the cage. "Her technique still needs polish," he said slowly, "but her will is already world-championship level. You may see just a stubborn warrior. I see a real wild tiger living in her heart. With time and careful shaping, the whole world will hear its roar."
His words, broadcast on the big screen and streamed live, reached Zhang Weili and her coach. The girl glanced at him under the spotlight, surprise and gratitude in her eyes.
She went on to win a hard-fought decision.
Backstage afterward, Yogan called her and her coach over. Both were shy and excited in the presence of a UFC star.
"Teacher Yogan… thank you for believing in me," Zhang Weili said, face flushed from either exertion or embarrassment.
Yogan smiled warmly. "Weili, your talent shouldn't be slowed by anything outside training. On my behalf, I'd like to offer you an educational sponsorship."
David Chen, already anticipating this, handed over a simple contract.
"Five hundred thousand yuan a year for three years," Yogan said. "Use it for education, nutrition, rehab, international exchanges—whatever helps you grow. I want nothing in return, only for you to focus completely, go to America, step onto the bigger UFC stage, and show the world the power of Chinese women."
Zhang Weili's eyes filled with tears as she accepted the offer.
Somewhere in the arena above, the crowd roared for another fight—UFC 319's Wolf King versus Great Rhino—but here, in this quiet corner, another seed of greatness had just been planted.
---