Two days later, the familiar scent of sweat and leather filled every corner of AKA's training gym. It was a smell Yogan had missed—the smell of discipline, of bodies grinding against their limits, of fists hitting pads until they sang. Every cell in his body seemed to wake up as if someone had thrown open a window to fresh air.
"Hey! Look who's back—Chinese kid, banana!"
DC Cormier's booming voice echoed across the mats before the man himself came lumbering over like a friendly bear. He wrapped Yogan in a crushing hug that almost lifted him off the ground.
"Welcome back, brother." Luke Rockhold followed up with a warm pat on the shoulder.
From the far side of the gym, Khabib Nurmagomedov hobbled over, still recovering from knee surgery. His trademark eagle-sharp gaze burned with the same fighting spirit as always. He said nothing, just clapped Yogan on the shoulder—hard—his silent greeting speaking louder than any words.
Tactical Briefing
That afternoon the fighters gathered in AKA's tactical analysis room. The lights dimmed, and head coach Javier Mendez activated the holographic projector in the center of the table. A three-dimensional image sprang to life: Dustin Poirier, "The Diamond," hammering an opponent against the cage with a merciless flurry of punches.
On screen, Poirier's fists looked like pistons, fast and heavy, brimming with the raw aggression of the Louisiana swamps.
Yogan's eyes narrowed. This was not the same Dustin Poirier from the memories of his previous life. His own rise had subtly shifted the UFC's matchmaking timeline. In that other world, Diamond had been knocked out by Conor McGregor, discouraged, and forced up to Lightweight. That reckoning had never happened here. Instead, Poirier had strung together three dominant wins at Featherweight, knocking out two top-ten fighters and climbing to number four. His confidence and aura had reached their peak.
Javier's voice was unusually grave. "Dustin is a rising star—hard fists, iron chin, and, most importantly, fearless. The UFC's intention in booking this fight is obvious."
He scanned the room. "This is essentially a championship-contender elimination match. The winner of you two will be next in line for the golden belt."
Yogan nodded silently, feeling the weight of the moment. The butterfly effect had made his road even steeper and more unpredictable.
Then he spoke, surprising everyone. "Coach, I understand the importance of this challenge. But I need to add two specific training focuses."
"Oh?" Javier raised an eyebrow. "Tell me."
"First, low-kick defense and stand-up against high-level Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu black belts." Yogan's gaze darkened. "Second, distance control and internal defense against top-level southpaws."
The room fell silent. Everyone knew what he meant. The first point aimed at current champion José Aldo. The second pointed at the Irishman on a meteoric rise, Conor McGregor.
DC Cormier scratched his bald head and cracked a joke to break the tension. "Bro, you haven't even beaten the 'interim contender' yet and you're already studying for the finals? Big heart."
Yogan didn't explain. He knew his intuition would sound crazy.
But this time Javier shook his head firmly. "No, Yogan. I disagree." It was the first time the veteran coach had openly rejected one of his fighter's requests.
"I understand your ambition. Every man who walks in here dreams of that golden belt." Javier's voice was steady but powerful. "But Dustin Poirier is a mountain right in front of you—harder to climb than Aldo or Conor."
"Why?" Luke Rockhold asked, genuinely surprised.
"Because Aldo's fought too many wars; his body has hidden cracks. Conor's ground game is a clear weakness. But this Dustin? No obvious holes. He can strike, he can wrestle, he has cardio for days, and his mind is rock-solid. He's the most complete fighter in the division."
Javier tapped the table for emphasis. "Until we knock Dustin out, training camp is about him—nothing else. That's the head coach's order."
His words left no room for debate. The playful expressions on DC and Luke's faces vanished. They knew the coach was thinking only of Yogan's success.
Yogan met Javier's determined gaze and stayed silent for a few seconds. He knew the man was right. A Diamond at peak confidence was more dangerous than the broken version Conor had once demolished.
"I understand, teacher." Yogan inclined his head. "I withdraw my suggestion. All my energy will focus on Dustin Poirier."
Javier's expression softened. "Good. Now let's build a detailed preparation plan."
And so began the most grueling, detailed training camp Yogan had ever experienced—preparing to face a "complete Diamond."
The Sparring Gauntlet
Javier lined up three primary sparring partners for Yogan.
First was Juan Archuleta, a relentless bantamweight whose style mirrored Poirier's: no advantage in height or reach, but endless stamina and pressure-punching boxing that forced opponents into "phone-booth" wars. Every day Yogan had to dance out of Juan's storms, honing footwork and counterpunching until it became instinct.
Second was Josh Thomson, AKA's Lightweight wrestling ace. Poirier's cage control and counter-wrestling were excellent, so Javier instructed Josh to pin Yogan relentlessly against the fence, simulating Diamond's signature tactics. Yogan had to master escaping the cage and firing back under suffocating pressure.
Third, and most crucial, was Khabib Nurmagomedov. Though still rehabbing his knee, Khabib could drill upper-body wrestling and ground escapes with his infamous "Dagestan Handcuffs." His grip strength alone could make world-class fighters panic. Sitting across from him, Yogan often found himself trapped before he even realized the position.
"More pressure! More!" Khabib barked in his thick accent, forcing Yogan to dig deeper every round.
Training in this hell forged Yogan sharper than ever. His "Godlike Reflexes" felt reborn—faster, clearer, almost predictive. He could see Juan's next punch before it landed, slip the instant of slack when Josh pressed him to the fence, sense the micro-opening under Khabib's iron grip.
Privately, Yogan hadn't abandoned his "extra" training. Late at night, after the gym emptied, he stayed behind adding targeted drills based on memories from his previous life. It wasn't disrespect to Javier; it was urgency. The coach's warning—"Dustin is a mountain"—echoed in his mind.
Body at the Limit
Every day Dustin's highlight reels replayed in Yogan's head. This Diamond, shattered once by Conor, was now harder, more polished, forged by victory instead of defeat. To break it he would need two hundred percent effort.
Yet another battle raged inside him: his own body's protest. Muscle mass was creeping up; even his bones felt denser. Cutting to 145 pounds had become a march through hell. He knew his time at Featherweight was running out—maybe after Diamond and one or two more fights, the cut would no longer be safe.
He couldn't wait. He had to seize the throne quickly, undisputedly, grab that golden belt, and only then move up. That urgency was why he kept glancing beyond the mountain called Diamond, mapping the view on the other side.
Opportunity favors the prepared. To win tomorrow, he had to train today as if he were already fighting for the title.
Watching the Storm
While grinding through camp, Yogan also tracked the entire UFC landscape via daily briefings from David Chen. His rise hadn't changed everything. Conor McGregor's popularity was still skyrocketing. After torching Dennis Siver and leaping over the cage in celebration, the Irish money-machine had been promised a title shot.
At the center of the storm still stood José Aldo, the Brazilian king who had ruled Featherweight for nearly a decade. A week later, Conor and Aldo embarked on their global press tour. First stop: Rio de Janeiro.
The venue overflowed with furious Brazilian fans. Deafening chants of "Uh Vai Morrer! (You will die!)" shook the rafters. But Conor, like a small boat riding a hurricane, showed no fear. If anything, he seemed to thrive on it. Wearing sunglasses and a smirk, he grabbed the microphone from the host and stalked to the edge of the stage, looking down at thousands of angry faces like a king surveying peasants.
Conor's Firestorm
Isabella Rossi found Yogan icing his knee and shoved a tablet in front of him without a word. She'd already turned the volume to maximum. On screen, Conor's thick Dublin accent poured out like venom:
"Listen! Listen to the screams of those monkeys! Is this what your king José Aldo gives you—a coward trembling in the slums?" He jabbed a finger at the crowd. "I'll walk into his backyard, sit on his throne, sling his woman on my shoulders, and turn his UFC belt into an Irish trophy! All he'll do is kneel at my feet and beg like a dog!"
Bottles and trash rained onto the stage. Conor stood there, droplets soaking his expensive suit, grin widening. "What? Can't take it? This is just the beginning!" He flashed his middle finger at the cameras.
Then he pivoted, bringing up UFC 186. "Speaking of cowards, two more come to mind—Dustin Poirier and… 'Yogan'? Some Chinese kid with no last name."
His tone dripped contempt. "One's a hillbilly hiding out in Canada for 'exhibition matches'; the other's a cockroach crawling around the Octagon stealing wins on referee calls, thinking he matters." He roared into the mic: "After I tear Aldo's head off, I'll tell Dana White to put those two in the same dog cage. I'll crush that fake Diamond, then crush that Chinese cockroach! They can hug each other and use their tears to wash their wounds! In my era they're just stepping stones—not even worthy of tying my shoes!"
The video ended. In the silent gym only the faint hiss of melting ice in Yogan's bucket remained.
Isabella's Outrage
"This is blatant racism and a personal insult!" Isabella's voice trembled with anger. "We must respond immediately—in the strongest way possible. I suggest a training-montage video where you stare into the camera and show what you can do. It will explode online. We cannot stay silent!"
In professional sports, silence often looks like weakness.
Yogan didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark screen, jaw clenched. The venom in Conor's words had touched something deep—but not the way Isabella imagined. It wasn't rage. It was clarity, the sharpening of a blade.
He slowly set down the ice pack and rose to his feet. In that moment his expression shifted from fighter to warrior. The room seemed to grow colder around him.
He would answer, but not with words. He would answer in the only language the Octagon understood—victory.
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(Side commentary on the broadcast still rolled across the screen: "Wolf King is so strong! South Africa had no strength to fight back. I thought they could turn the tide. No effective hits—if Wolf King keeps fighting like this, the triple crown is near!")
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