Yogan took the tablet from Isabella and read the article again, slowly, as if tasting each word.
His expression stayed calm, but inside he felt a flicker of amusement. In his previous life he had been nothing more than a spectator on a couch, watching Conor McGregor's dominance through a glowing screen and feeling the Irishman's arrogance like a punch through the glass.
Now he was the one inside the Octagon's story. And only now did he truly understand the essence of this so-called "psychological warfare."
It was nothing more than the shrill cry of a small animal, hoping its noise would rattle a predator.
No matter how loudly an ant screams, it cannot move an elephant an inch.
He handed the tablet back to Isabella and gave a slight nod.
"There's no need," he said quietly.
"Why?" Isabella's voice rose, eyes blazing. "Yogan, are you just going to let him humiliate you and our country like this? This will seriously affect your business value and public image!"
She couldn't understand his attitude. To her, it felt like he was questioning her professionalism.
Yogan took a slow sip from the bottle of electrolyte drink Phil had prepared, then set it down. "Isabella," he asked mildly, "have you ever read Sun Tzu's The Art of War?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "A little," she admitted.
"As swift as the wind, as silent as the forest, as fierce as fire, and as unshakable as a mountain."
He recited the line first in Chinese, the syllables flowing like water, then translated it into English.
"Conor is fire," Yogan continued. "Loud, wild, trying to devour everything. He uses the foulest language and the most exaggerated performances to pull everyone into his chaos, to rile us up, to make us lose control. But the brighter the flame burns, the faster it goes out."
His gaze deepened, steady as a still lake.
"And I am the mountain."
"A mountain does not answer the howling wind or the licking of fire. It simply stands, waiting for the wind to die down and the fire to burn itself out. True victory isn't spoken. When I take the championship belt, every word he's said will slap him in the face on its own."
Isabella stared at him blankly, feeling as if her entire training in public relations was being turned upside down.
The "laws" she knew—eye contact, creating topics, feeding the media for clicks—suddenly felt small and superficial before this man.
At the same time, a new thought flickered through her mind:
Why did a counterattack have to be on the opponent's path?
Sometimes the most devastating blow was delivered from a higher plane.
The Mountain and the Fire
The very next day ESPN's veteran reporter Ariel Helwani published a detailed feature article titled:
> "Immovable as a Mountain: Facing McGregor's Fire, the Flash from the East Answers with Sun Tzu."
The piece broke down Yogan's "mountain versus fire" theory, describing Conor's outrageous speeches as a "fire attack" tactic and Yogan's silence as the highest level of strategic composure—"unshakable as a mountain."
Helwani even framed the whole situation as a clash between Eastern and Western philosophies of combat.
The fighting world lit up.
For the first time, countless viewers and journalists began to look beyond Yogan's fists and see a thinker, a strategist. Against Conor's almost gleeful insults, Yogan's cold, philosophical silence suddenly seemed larger and higher. A quiet, mysterious, powerful image—filled with Eastern wisdom—took root in people's minds.
At AKA's training gym, David Chen scrolled through the exploding online debates and called Isabella in excitement.
"Jesus, you're a genius! That move was amazing!"
But Isabella, glancing across the gym at Yogan bent under a barbell, doing heavy deadlifts with perfect form, only smiled quietly.
"No," she murmured. "He's the real genius. I'm just a translator."
Conor's Traveling Circus
Conor's world-tour press conferences became a global reality show, a new comedy each day.
From Rio de Janeiro to Las Vegas to Dublin, he rampaged like a one-man storm.
He snatched Aldo's championship belt and waved it at the press conference.
He tore down Aldo's posters in public.
He tried every possible way to poke at the king who had ruled the Featherweight division for a decade.
The entire fight world was dragged into his vortex.
By comparison, the upcoming UFC 186 bout—Yogan's semi-title eliminator against Dustin "Diamond" Poirier—seemed almost overshadowed. But Yogan's team didn't mind at all. The noise outside gave them exactly what they wanted: a perfect bubble of quiet to prepare.
Ascetic Training at AKA
The AKA gym had turned into a monastery for fighters.
Every day of Yogan's camp was full, disciplined, almost monk-like.
Before dawn he rose for cardio and core drills under Phil's supervision at his new home, then ate a meticulously balanced breakfast. Technical training filled the mornings.
Monday & Wednesday – Boxing days: Eight rounds under Juan Archuleta's storm-pressure, honing defense and counters against endless volume.
Tuesday & Thursday – Wrestling days: Cageside grappling with Josh Thomson, escaping bad positions and learning to turn the tables.
Friday – "Khabib Day": The worst of all. Khabib's knee had healed enough for standing grappling. The Dagestani Eagle clung to Yogan like glue, draining his stamina and will with suffocating control.
"Control, bro. Control is everything," Khabib repeated like a mantra, even as sweat poured down his own face.
On weekends, while others rested, Yogan drove to San Jose State University to wrestle with DC Cormier. Though DC was a heavyweight, his Olympic-level wrestling and sheer strength pushed Yogan to the edge.
"Your technique's great, Yogan," DC puffed as he pinned him. "But against real heavy hitters sometimes technique isn't enough. You need the strength to take a single blow."
Late at night, when the house was dark, the lights of Yogan's home gym flicked on again.
There he ran his "secret training" alone—low kicks and stand-ups against the heavy bag, visualizing Aldo; footwork and jab defense against a moving target, visualizing Conor.
This triple-layered preparation drained him mentally and physically, but he endured.
Phil's ex-Marine discipline and cutting-edge recovery methods—ice baths, massage, hyperbaric oxygen—kept him from breaking.
"Your lactate threshold's up another 0.2 points," Phil noted from the tablet one night. "But your cortisol's high—mental stress. Make sure you get at least eight and a half hours of sleep."
Isabella managed the outside world, rejecting all unnecessary business and interviews. Each week she briefed Yogan on public opinion.
"Yogan, here's the latest analysis." She handed him a report. "The 'mountain-fire theory' has been a huge success. Western media now see you as a calm, wise, mysterious Eastern martial artist. It's a perfect foundation for your brand."
Yogan just nodded, not particularly interested. What caught his eye instead was a small news item buried in the briefing: Lightweight champion Rafael dos Anjos had injured himself in training and withdrawn from his scheduled title defense, replaced by Donald "Cowboy" Cerrone.
His eyes narrowed.
He remembered the Brazilian "workhorse" from his previous life, always plagued by injuries. History still flowed along the same fine cracks.
"Lightweight really is a place where many misfortunes happen," Yogan murmured, maybe to himself, maybe to Khabib.
Khabib just grunted. "When I return, no more accidents there," he said, eyes burning with the desire to dominate.
Media Day
UFC 186's open-press training day arrived. It would be the fighters' last public appearance before the bout. Under Isabella's arrangement, Yogan only accepted small-group interviews to avoid media overload.
The first question came from Ariel Helwani himself.
"Yogan, first of all congratulations on the biggest fight of your career. We all watched Conor and Aldo's world tour. As a top Featherweight contender, what do you think of that matchup? Who wins?"
A tricky question. Picking a side would offend the other.
Yogan looked straight into the camera, voice calm. "I don't favor anyone. Because no matter who wins, they'll lose the belt to me. I only care about my own fight."
The answer was flawless—humble yet confident—and drew spontaneous applause from the reporters.
Ariel pressed on. "Do you have anything to say in response to Conor's remarks about you at the press conference?"
"No." Yogan's reply was immediate. "If a dog barks at you, do you get on all fours and bark back? You just do your job and walk past. My job is to finish Dustin Poirier on April 25th."
The analogy triggered a storm of laughter.
Another reporter rose. "Yogan, your physique looks stronger than before. Fans are asking if you plan to move up to Lightweight."
Right on target.
Yogan met the camera's eye. "Of course. Featherweight is only my starting point, not my ending point."
He went on, his tone still calm but carrying a spark of battle intent. "There are interesting guys at Lightweight. Rafael dos Anjos is a tank—he earned the title, and I'm sorry he's injured. Khabib is my brother; he's the storm of that division. When he returns, he'll dominate. And Tony Ferguson—he's like a mad artist, every fight a bloody masterpiece. I admit, one day I want to fight him."
The room buzzed.
In one short statement he'd announced his plan to move up, endorsed two future rivals, and prophesied the division's kings. Reporters scribbled furiously, knowing tomorrow's headlines were already written.
The Diet Ultimatum
After the interview Yogan returned to the locker room.
Nutritionist Phil Nunes came in with a printed sheet, his face serious.
"Yogan, your body data is here," he said, handing over the dense form. "This is your first official prep diet." He pointed to the second page.
Yogan scanned it:
Breakfast: Six egg whites, one bowl of oatmeal.
Lunch: Two hundred grams boiled chicken breast, a plate of broccoli.
Dinner: Two hundred grams steamed cod, a serving of asparagus.
Water: 3.5 liters daily.
No sugar, no high sodium, no saturated fats. Everything measured to the gram.
He looked at the page without expression.
DC Cormier leaned over, read it, and yelped. "Oh my God! Phil, do you have rabbits? How's that enough for training?"
As he spoke he sneaked a slice of pizza from his bag, lifting it toward his mouth.
"Daniel!" Phil's voice cracked like a whip.
DC froze mid-bite.
"Put that garbage down—trans fat and bad carbs. You'll wreck your cardiovascular system ten years early!" Phil scolded.
DC blushed and set the pizza aside like a caught child.
The gym filled with laughter.
Then Phil's expression hardened again. He looked at Yogan and said something that hushed the room.
"Yogan, I have to warn you. According to your bone-age test and hormone levels, your body is in a rare secondary growth spurt. Bone density and muscle mass are still climbing at an unusual rate."
He paused. "That's good—it means you haven't reached your power limit yet. But it also means…"
His eyes sharpened.
"Two more fights at most, and Featherweight won't be your battleground. Your body won't survive cutting to 145 pounds."
The scientific verdict landed like a gavel.
It was the final ultimatum for Yogan's foreseeable future.
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