Zhang Weili and her coach were completely stunned.
Three years in a row, five hundred thousand each year—one and a half million in total. For someone new to the Chinese fight scene in 2015, that was an astronomical figure. This single promise of support was enough to change her destiny, to free her completely from the exhausting, complicated pressures of survival and training costs.
Weili's eyes instantly turned red. She was not a person who spoke well; she could only bow again and again, whispering over and over, "Thank you… thank you, Yogan…" Her coach's hands trembled as he tried to hold the contract steady.
Watching the two of them so excited that they could barely speak, a thought in Yogan's mind became clearer and stronger. He turned to David Chen, who was just as shocked by the scene.
"David," Yogan said quietly but firmly, "after I return to the United States, consult a lawyer. I want to establish a 'Chinese Combat Development Fund' under our company's name. It won't be for profit. It'll be to financially support athletes like Weili—talented, disciplined, but lacking resources. We'll send them to the best training camps, hire the best nutritionists and physiotherapists for them, remove every obstacle so they can focus entirely on training."
David Chen stared at him for a second, then nodded slowly.
Thanks to the enormous wealth he had accumulated in the financial markets over the years, Yogan had already achieved what ordinary people called financial freedom. Now, standing in this dim backstage corridor beside a young fighter who reminded him of himself, he wanted to do something more meaningful—something that could change not only a career, but an entire generation. This fund would be his first step.
---
The hands of time moved quickly toward the Lunar New Year.
On New Year's Eve, Yogan's family moved into the brand-new garden villa. That night he was no longer a superstar battling in the spotlight or a strategic business genius admired by investors. He was simply the son of an ordinary family.
He helped his father paste bright red couplets neatly on the front door, the glue sticking cold on his fingertips. He accompanied his mother in the large, sun-lit kitchen, laughing as they folded plump manti. The scent of pork and cabbage filled the room, interwoven with the faint smell of new paint from the freshly renovated house.
As evening fell, the family sat together in the warm living room, eating a steaming New Year's Eve dinner while the Spring Festival Gala flickered on the large television screen. Laughter and clinking chopsticks filled the air.
Yogan looked at the warm, harmonious scene in front of him, yet in his mind, unbidden, arose the image of the Octagon—the referee raising his arm, his opponent collapsed on the ground, face covered in blood. On one side lay the warmth and humanity of the world; on the other, Hell's song of blood and fire.
These two very different lives now fused perfectly yet contradictorily inside him. In that moment, he grasped more deeply than ever the meaning of his struggle. It was not just for fame and glory, but for this: to preserve the ordinary happiness before him, hard-won and fragile.
---
The short Spring Festival holiday passed like a moment.
Finally, departure day arrived. The sky was gray, as though reluctant to let him go. His mother quietly packed his suitcase, filling half of it with local snacks and common medicines, repeating instructions about eating and sleeping on time. His father remained silent, but before they left for the airport, he pulled Yogan aside, tapped him hard on the shoulder, and said in a low voice, "Take care out there. I'm here at home. Always."
Just as Yogan was about to step out the door, his phone vibrated. An encrypted email from David Chen appeared on the screen. The body contained only one line:
"Yogan, the UFC's challenge has arrived. I'm passing it on to you."
He drew a slow, deep breath and opened the attachment.
On his phone screen sat the official fight contract from UFC matchmaker Sean Shelby—no unnecessary pleasantries, just cold, clear text. His pupils constricted slightly as he read.
Opponent: #4 Dustin "The Diamond" Poirier
Date: April 25, 2015
Location: Bell Centre, Montreal, Canada
Event: UFC 186 — Demetrious "Mighty Mouse" Johnson vs. Kyoji Horiguchi (Headline)
Bout: Co-Main Event
Finally, the challenge had come.
Yogan stared at the cold English letters. All the warmth and comfort of the past month evaporated. Deep in his eyes, the killing intent of a warrior reignited. The king was about to return to his battlefield.
---
High in the sky, ten thousand feet above the earth, the night was deep. The cabin lights of the Boeing 777 were dim; the steady breathing of passengers filled the air. But Yogan was wide awake.
Before leaving home he had printed the contract at a small copy shop. Now he took the crisp paper from his backpack. Its weight was solid, real. Without hesitation he uncapped his pen and signed his name in bold strokes:
— Yogan.
He took a clear photo of the signed contract and emailed it to David Chen. Then he folded the paper carefully, placed it back in his backpack, leaned against the seat, and closed his eyes.
Home had been his port of recharging. His battery was now full. The Octagon awaited.
Dustin, I'm coming…
---
The Boeing 777 pierced the California morning fog like a steel whale. The slight jolt of the landing gear touching the runway woke Yogan from his light sleep. He opened his eyes and looked out the window. The silhouette of San Francisco International Airport slowly emerged in the morning light.
The air felt different here—uneasy, saturated with competition and ambition—a sharp contrast to the warmth of home.
As he passed through the crowded arrival hall, he immediately spotted a familiar face. David Chen stood waiting, casual yet impeccably neat, a calm, capable smile on his face.
"Welcome, Champion," David said simply. He didn't bother with formalities, taking the backpack from Yogan's hand with practiced ease.
"You've worked hard," Yogan replied.
"This is my mission," David answered, guiding him toward the parking lot. "As you instructed, everything is arranged. I'll take you to see your new home first so you can adjust to the time difference."
"Good," Yogan nodded.
---
A foreign country could be beautiful, but it ultimately lacked a sense of belonging. In the past he had lived in comfortable apartments, but they always felt temporary. As his fame and fortune grew—and more importantly, as his long-term plans for the future crystallized—having a completely private space of his own had become essential.
The black Cadillac Escalade rolled away from the airport, turning south not toward AKA but toward Almaden Valley, an affluent enclave of San Jose. The streets were lined with lush trees, quiet and far from the city's noise.
Finally, the car stopped before a modern Spanish-style villa—white walls, red roof tiles, a large front garden and a shimmering pool behind.
"We're at your new residence," David said, handing over the keys. "Fifteen-minute drive to AKA, top-level community security, complete confidentiality. The interior and furniture are all brand new; you can move in immediately."
Yogan took the keys, feeling a ripple of emotion. Money was just a number to him now, but having a true "home," even abroad, gave his drifting heart stability. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
High-ceilinged living room, open-plan kitchen, huge French windows looking out over the clear pool and trimmed lawn—everything was exactly as he had imagined.
"This is just the first step," Yogan said softly, standing at the window.
David blinked. "What's the first step?"
"AKA is wonderful; it made me who I am," Yogan said, his gaze seeming to pierce through time. "But in the future, we need something that's truly ours—a gym, a team serving only us, a base to cultivate China's next generation of fighters. This house is the starting point of that plan."
David's heart pounded. For the first time he clearly felt that this young man's ambition reached far beyond the golden belt. He wanted to build a dynasty.
"I understand," David said, trembling slightly with excitement. "I'll begin preliminary research and planning."
---
Yogan spent two full days in his new home, adjusting his body and mind to peak condition. He rejected social invitations, meditated, read, and familiarized himself with the surroundings. On the third morning, as the first rays of sunlight entered the bedroom, he opened his eyes on time. Work and training were about to begin.
David was waiting downstairs with a man and a woman.
"Yogan," David said, "let me introduce the team members you authorized me to recruit."
He pointed first to a pretty blonde woman with a slightly apologetic expression. Yogan recognized her—Mary, the nutritionist who had managed his diet at AKA.
"Yogan, I'm sorry," Mary said. "My husband's job is moving us to the East Coast. I recommended my teacher to David; he's the best expert in the field."
"It's okay, Mary," Yogan said kindly. "I wish you both the best."
Then David gestured to the tall, broad-shouldered man standing beside her, posture straight as a javelin.
"This is Mary's teacher, Dr. Phil Nunez," David said with respect. "An absolute authority on sports nutrition and human performance enhancement. He was chief physical training adviser to the U.S. Marine Corps. I spent a lot to bring him out of retirement to take full responsibility for your nutrition and weight management."
Phil extended his hand, expressionless, voice deep and clipped like a military order. "Mr. Yogan, hello. Mary and I have discussed your situation. Your body is a treasure trove, but also a ticking time bomb. For our first session we'll need far more comprehensive data than usual."
Yogan sensed the man's extreme thoroughness and professionalism. "No problem, Dr. Phil. I'll cooperate fully."
Then David turned to the second newcomer—a woman with short, sleek chestnut hair in a tailored white Versace suit, eyes brimming with confidence and a touch of aggression.
"This is Ms. Isabella Rossi," David introduced. "She was a star agent at CAA Sports, planning global branding projects for numerous NBA superstars. She'll now serve as our Director of Media Relations and Personal Brand Strategy."
Isabella's smile was professional and charming. "Hello, Yogan—or should I call you 'Flash'?"
She drew an iPad from her bag and opened a document, placing it in front of him. On the cover, bold English letters read: "'The Flash' Yogan — Global Brand Strategy and Narrative Creation (Phase One)."
"This is a preliminary plan I've prepared for you—fifty-three pages," she said rapidly. "Three core ideas: First, strengthen the mystique of your 'Eastern wisdom, Western power' integration. Second, enter the high-end market through cross-industry collaborations with leading global brands. Third, establish a personal charity fund to perfect your public image and create a youth idol beyond the ordinary fighter."
Yogan listened silently. In Isabella's presentation he was no longer a living human warrior but a product to be calculated, packaged, and maximized for value. He didn't like that feeling.
"Ms. Rossi," he said calmly, meeting her gaze, "your plan is excellent. But you need to understand something first. I am a warrior. My value comes from the victories I achieve in the Octagon. Help me win the next fight first. Then we'll talk about brands and idols."
Isabella froze for a heartbeat, her polished smile stiffening. This young fighter from the East was far more interesting—and far less pliable—than she had imagined.
The meeting was productive and straightforward. A new elite team centered entirely on Yogan was beginning to take shape.
That afternoon he completed his initial data collection at a professional facility with Dr. Phil. In the evening David updated him on the final details of his Under Armour contract. Everything was slowly falling into place.
---
(Brothers and sisters, are you watching UFC 319? Following the big fight between Chimaev and the South African? It's truly the most valuable bout of the year—don't miss it! I'm betting on the South African. What about you? Comment below!)
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End of Chapter 31
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