Yogan nodded silently. Enough, he thought.
Two fights were enough.
His developing body devoured energy every day like an ancient beast awakened from its slumber; bones stretching larger, muscles thickening by the week. The Featherweight Division—once a comfortable cage—had grown unbearably tight, every weight cut now a brutal assault on both his body and his will.
He no longer had the time or the capital to linger. What he wanted was the fastest, most dazzling blitzkrieg imaginable—one that left no doubt in anyone's mind.
This plan had been rehearsed countless times since the moment he signed the contract to fight "Diamond." Every detail, every variable had been run through precise simulations, sand-table scenarios crafted in the theatre of his Godlike Reflexes.
Step one: defeat Dustin Poirier.
And not just a win—an undisputed, crushing victory. Because standing in front of him was not the same "Diamond" who had once lost easily to Conor in his previous life, but a true Diamond whose fate had shifted because of Yogan's arrival. This version stood at the peak of his career—winning streak alive, morale sky-high.
Only by beating such an opponent, and beating him decisively, could Yogan claim the number-one contender's ticket and take center stage on the final chessboard—becoming the piece that determined the course of the game.
Now he waited.
Stay tuned for UFC 189, where the King will face the Challenger.
In his previous life, King José Aldo had withdrawn from the fight on the eve of the match after breaking a rib in training. That single accident triggered a chain of dominoes. Would this timeline be any different? Yogan didn't know. But he chose to trust history's powerful inertia.
He knew better than anyone the immense wear and tear Aldo's style inflicted on his body—those endless low kicks, the extreme dodges, the wars fought over nearly a decade. The King's legs and torso bore the scars of countless blows. On the outside he still gleamed like fine porcelain; inside he was riddled with cracks. One hard collision, one wrong step, and the entire masterpiece could shatter.
A withdrawal was highly probable.
So if Aldo pulled out, how would the UFC salvage a "War of the Century" into which it had poured so much money?
There was only one answer: bring in a fighter for an interim title bout against their highly publicized Irish cash cow—Conor McGregor.
And in the whole Featherweight Division, who besides Yogan had the qualifications, reputation, and power to step into that urgent, eagerly anticipated slot?
Chad Mendes? The Alpha Male wrestler was talented, no doubt. But from a business perspective, Mendes' pure wrestling style lacked entertainment value. The UFC couldn't risk its superstar being held down for five rounds by a "stocky" grappler. That would be a commercial disaster.
But Yogan—the "Eastern Flash"—offered enormous market potential, an undefeated record, and the momentum of a shocking knockout of another top opponent. From both a commercial and a competitive view, he was the obvious choice.
The mysterious Eastern Kung Fu master versus the arrogant Western fighting superstar—the story wrote itself, more compelling than "King vs. Challenger."
So his second fight would be at UFC 189, against Conor McGregor for the interim title. Win, and he would hold the belt. Then, when Aldo returned from injury, a title-unification match would be inevitable. That would be his third and final Featherweight fight. Defeat Aldo, turn the interim belt into true royalty, then move up in weight with no regrets, crowned as Featherweight Champion.
Into the broader Lightweight forest he would go, to hunt bigger prey he had long marked.
Three fights. Title. Move up.
Clear. Precise. Every step aligned with destiny's knots.
And now, the first and most challenging obstacle on that path of glory stood before him.
April 2015. Montreal, Canada.
The city—brimming with French-Canadian charm—was still caught in winter's chill; wind off the Saint Lawrence River cut faces like knives. Yet the cold couldn't dampen the volcanic passion of UFC fans.
UFC 186 banners fluttered in every corner.
The Bell Centre press room overflowed with reporters, camera flashes sparkling like stars even in daylight.
Dustin Poirier wore a T-shirt with a map of Louisiana on it, like an alligator emerging from a swamp—ferocious and predatory. He didn't disappoint the media. From the moment he sat, he aimed his fire directly at Yogan.
> "Flash? What a ridiculous name," Diamond barked in his Southern drawl. "All that fancy dodging? A coward's game. You can dodge one punch in the Octagon—can you dodge a hundred? I'll crush him like a steamroller, smash that pretty face like a tomato! People exaggerate his 'Eastern wisdom,' his 'Art of War.' This is Montreal, not some backyard study! I'll use my fists to show the world how to extinguish a Flash!"
Some fans applauded.
When it was Yogan's turn, the hall fell silent. Everyone waited for his famous "Mountain Fire Theory."
He simply looked at Dustin, calm, eyes devoid of anger—examining him as if he were an object.
> "Diamond is tough," Yogan said softly, "but eventually he'll be cut. I'll be the one to cut him."
He set down the microphone, leaned back, and closed his eyes—as if the rest of the conference had nothing to do with him.
This extreme calm was deadlier than any insult. It said: You're not worth my anger.
Backstage, the two teams crossed paths in a narrow corridor leading to the dressing rooms. The air went solid. Dustin stopped. His teammates froze.
He stepped closer to Yogan, voice low enough for only the two to hear.
> "Kid, there's no such thing as 'The Art of War' in the Octagon."
Yogan paused, turned his head, and for the first time smiled—a hunter's smile at prey walking into the trap.
> "War is the Dao of deception," he said in pure Chinese, the words carrying an ancient, mysterious cadence.
Dustin's face tightened. He didn't understand the sentence, but he understood the look—cool, sarcastic, condescending. It was a blow across culture and dimension. One man swung fists like a bully; the other plotted like a strategist. It drove him mad.
"F*** you!" he snarled, stepping forward.
DC Cormier slid between them like a wall, smile gentle but eyes warning. Coach Javier Mendez put a calming hand on Dustin's shoulder.
Tension crackled between the two camps.
Fight night. Bell Centre.
The arena—capacity over twenty thousand—had become a boiling ocean. Thunderous screams, like mountains and tsunamis, threatened to shatter the roof.
Backstage, though, was silence broken only by heartbeats.
Yogan sat naked to the waist, hands already wrapped, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep—not like a man headed to a bloody fight but one entering meditation.
His heart was in that cold, pure world where only war existed.
Each team member handled his task. Phil Nunes monitored Yogan's heart rate, temperature, and blood sugar on a tablet, controlling his fluid intake down to the milliliter. David Chen confirmed entry times with UFC officials. Isabella's phone screen glowed with pre-made promotional texts and posters, ready to explode across the internet as soon as the fight ended.
Coach Javier gave final tactical notes in a steady voice. DC and Luke guarded the door like sentinels. Khabib sat opposite Yogan, silent, his soul-piercing eyes radiating quiet support.
A knock on the door.
"Yogan's team—five minutes!"
Yogan's eyes snapped open. Calm vanished. In its place a cold, hawk-like killing intent locked onto its prey. He stood, stretched; joints cracked.
The king goes to the city with sword in hand.
"Now! It's time! Are you ready?!"
The Bell Centre erupted as Bruce Buffer's high-pitched voice whipped blood into a frenzy.
> "Okay fight fans! First, entering from the blue corner—he hails from Lafayette, Louisiana, USA! Professional record: 17 wins, 4 losses! Currently ranked number four in the UFC Featherweight Division—'Diamond' Dustin Poirier!"
The crowd roared as Diamond strode to the Octagon, beating his chest, shouting back at the fans.
> "And his opponent—fighting out of the red corner! From China! Perfect record, 15 wins, no losses! Invincible! Undisputed! 'The Flash'—YOGAN!"
Cheers dipped, some boos mixing in. But as Yogan appeared—black entrance outfit traced with golden dragons, walking slowly to the sharp notes of "Ambush from Ten Sides"—the noise was swallowed by a cold invisible aura.
Eyes fixed straight ahead, he stepped methodically toward the Octagon.
Inside, referee Herb Dean called them to the center for final instructions.
Their eyes met.
In Dustin's: a raging inferno.
In Yogan's: a bottomless, cold pool.
The bell rang.
Like a tiger loosed from a cage, Dustin lunged. Combination punches crashed forward—left jab, right straight, hard uppercut, heavy hook—faster and stronger than on any tape.
Yogan's Godlike Reflexes flared. His upper body bobbed like duckweed on water, leaning back and slipping sideways by millimeters, each deadly punch missing by a breath. The wind of fists grazed his cheeks, tingling his skin.
The Bell Centre held its breath. They had never seen an escape so graceful. This was not merely fighting; it was art.
But Diamond's assault was relentless. Under the continuous barrage, Yogan's back heel brushed the cage mesh for the first and last time—a tiny pause, but Diamond saw it instantly.
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