"He's leaning against the cage!" Joe Rogan shouted from the commentary booth, voice rising like a trumpet blast. "This is Diamond's chance!"
A blood-hungry gleam flared in Dustin's eyes. He knew the cage would pin Yogan's movement and this was his one, perfect opening to end the fight.
With a roar he poured every ounce of power into his fists and launched his most ferocious barrage.
But neither Joe Rogan nor Dustin realized the truth.
This caging wasn't forced.
It was bait.
It was a trap.
A risky snare Yogan had designed specifically for Diamond long before the first bell. He knew Diamond's pride in his cage-pressure style; he knew the man would surge forward if he sensed weakness. So Yogan had deliberately offered that weakness, using himself as bait to lure the fiercest shark straight into an ambush.
Just as Diamond's furious punches seemed about to crush him, Yogan slid sideways at an impossible angle, his back skimming the fence like liquid mercury. He dodged the angry fists as if he were a fish slipping through a net.
In an instant the course of battle flipped.
Now Dustin was the one pinned against the cage while Yogan occupied the center like a hunter in his chosen ground.
Yogan's own combination finally exploded to life—textbook one-two, jab to open, straight right to follow.
Bang. Bang!
Two fists like battering rams hammered Diamond's face.
Then a hard uppercut snapped upward.
Crack!
Diamond's head jerked back; his steps faltered; blood gushed from his nose. He was dazed.
The crowd went silent with shock.
A 180-degree reversal before their eyes.
Inside Yogan a powerful, uncontrollable impulse surged: Now! He's finished! In the first round! Knock him out!
The thought burned like fire, searing through every patient reminder Coach Javier had drilled into him. He knew Diamond's most terrifying trait—his ability to counter like a caged beast. But the vision of a first-round knockout was too intoxicating. He chose to gamble.
He attacked wildly, punch after punch, trying to shatter the staggering Diamond once and for all.
But Diamond was Diamond for a reason: a granite chin and a will forged in war. Mid-flurry he roared and launched a murderous left hook.
Through his Godlike Reflexes, Yogan saw it clear as day. The safest move was to retreat, dodge, reset, then finish later.
He didn't.
He refused to lose the moment.
Driven by hunger for the kill, he made an even crazier decision—to trade punches. To meet power with power and bury his opponent in one brutal exchange.
He dipped just enough to move his temple out of danger, letting the peak of the fist glance off his brow bone—while his own right hand, loaded with destruction, thundered into Diamond's face.
Two detonations almost at once.
But Diamond didn't fall.
He staggered violently, eyes blazing with suicidal madness, and used the impact to launch a desperate counter.
A crimson bead trickled from Yogan's brow.
From the edge of the Octagon Coach Javier's roar cracked like thunder:
"Yogan! Get out of there! Get out of there!!"
The failed punch-trade, Diamond's frenzy, the coach's bellow, the sting of blood—all of it doused Yogan's fever like a bucket of ice water.
He stepped back, calm and deliberate, pulling himself out of the meat grinder.
Breathing space returned.
The Bell Centre exploded.
Joe Rogan seized the moment, words flying like a machine gun:
"What did we just see?! The Flash is bleeding! Dustin Poirier has cracked Yogan's golden aura! For the first time since he entered the UFC, Yogan's godlike dodging has a flaw—he's bleeding in a stand-up exchange! This first round is absolutely insane! He set a perfect trap, hurt Diamond badly, but then he chose to trade punches! Oh my God! What a crazy decision! And now both men are damaged!"
Fans were on their feet, fists pumping, faces a mixture of excitement and disbelief.
Just the first round—traps, reversals, blood, a star bleeding for the first time. Adrenaline everywhere.
Inside the cage Yogan and Diamond stared across a short distance, both gasping for air. Yogan wiped the blood with his glove, eyes colder and sharper than ever.
Opposite him Diamond, nose streaming, steps unsteady, still burned with fighting intent. He had survived the storm and drawn blood.
Ding!
The bell saved them.
Yogan walked to his corner, greeted by Javier's storm of rage.
"What are you doing, hell?! Yogan! Are you crazy?!"
Javier's face had gone pale. "That trap was perfect! You'd hurt him already! All you had to do was step back, control distance—he was yours! Why trade with him? Is your pride more important than victory? Do you want to bury our work under your arrogance?!"
Yogan bowed his head while DC pressed an ice pack to his cut. He didn't answer. He knew the coach was right. He'd reached for a shortcut.
Khabib said nothing, only stared with that Dagestani intensity and repeated a single word:
"Patience!"
Yogan inhaled deeply and nodded. Blood's sting and his coach's roar had awakened him. He understood: at this level even a flicker of impatience could mean eternal ruin.
The second-round bell rang.
The fight changed.
Yogan became an ice-cold machine. No more one-shot kill; he began dismantling the Diamond piece by piece, systematic and merciless. He controlled distance, his footwork a shifting puzzle. Every time Dustin over-extended, Yogan's leg shot like a battle-axe into the calf and outer knee of his lead leg.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sounds carried through the microphones.
In Diamond's corner his team shouted warnings about his legs, but Yogan's timing and angles were too tricky. By the end of Round Two a purplish bruise bloomed on Dustin's left leg.
Round Three mirrored it. Diamond's punches found mostly air while Yogan's blows slowed him down. After dodging a big right kick, Yogan's classic one-two snapped Dustin's head back, dragging him to the cage. Leg kicks kept landing. Dustin's stamina bled away. His left leg felt like dead wood.
He knew if it continued he'd die slowly.
A gleam of desperation flickered in the Louisianan's eyes. He abandoned defense, poured all his remaining strength into one last charge—a furious bull's rush, unleashing the combinations he knew best.
But inside Yogan's calmed "slow-motion" vision, every move unfolded like a diagram. He saw the final, lethal opening. As Dustin's big left sailed forward with everything behind it, his core and jaw were naked.
Yogan bent backward at an inhuman angle, the punch ripping the air just in front of his nose. Then, like a compressed spring, he rebounded, right foot nailed to the canvas, hips twisting, power rising from the floor into his torso and out through his fist.
A right uppercut, quick as lightning, swept up through Diamond's blind spot.
Crack!
A sound like a baseball bat hitting leather echoed through the Bell Centre. Timed to the millisecond, the uppercut landed square on the iron jaw.
Time froze.
Diamond's determined expression froze too, then emptied. The light in his eyes died. Like a puppet cut from its strings, he fell straight back, still in his punching stance, and hit the canvas.
On the apron Coach Javier's clenched fists shot skyward, his face breaking into ecstatic relief. DC and Khabib sprinted to the Octagon, roaring for their brother.
Yogan showed no outward joy. Like a calm assassin he followed with two controlling ground-and-pound shots until referee Herb Dean dived in, hugging him and waving it off.
Knockout.
The crowd of twenty thousand erupted—a tsunami of shock, awe, disbelief—rising from noise to gasps to stunned silence to an explosion when the referee stopped it.
"Knockout victory!"
"And he becomes the new number-one contender for the Featherweight Championship!"
"O—'Flash'—!"
"Yogan!!"
Bruce Buffer's voice thundered through the arena.
Yogan stood in the center, arms slowly raised. Blood streamed from his brow, mixing with sweat, making him look like a war-god fresh from hell.
Joe Rogan strode forward, microphone trembling with excitement. "Yogan! Unbelievable! A fantastic knockout! Dustin Poirier is as tough as they come, but you put him down! Tell me—what were you thinking at that moment?"
Yogan took the mic. He felt his ragged breathing, the weight of millions of eyes. He didn't answer directly. He looked through the camera, as though through the world itself.
"I'm here to prove who is the strongest in this league."
His voice reached billions.
"I beat Dennis Bermudez and now I beat Dustin Poirier. Only two names left on the list."
He paused; his eyes sharpened into a cold ultimatum.
"Dana White—you know what to do."
He handed the mic back. No wild shout, no gesture. Just calm steel.
Cameras caught Dana White ringside smiling—a sly old-fox smile—standing to applaud.
Backstage the heavy door closed, muting the roar. Yogan was engulfed by hugs and cheers.
"You did it, you crazy bastard!" DC Cormier scooped up the exhausted fighter like a grizzly, spinning him in the locker room. Luke Rockhold pumped his fists. Javier smiled at last and embraced his disciple. "I'm so proud of you, Yogan. Amazing how you cleared your head and executed the strategy flawlessly."
Khabib stayed quiet, handing over a bottle of water and a towel, eyes filled with brotherly respect.
Meanwhile Isabella, like a general, hit "send" on the team's social-media matrix. A "Diamond Cutter" poster showing Yogan's knockout shot went viral within a minute.
Dr. Phil, as ever robotic, handed over a full electrolyte drink, muttering: "Pulse 185 max, lactic acid extreme, nervous system fatigue. Recovery plan must start immediately. No parties, no alcohol for 72 hours."
DC groaned. "Come on, Phil, we won! Montreal smoked meat and poutine await!"
Phil's cold stare: "Daniel, I'll send you your body-fat report on the flight." DC shut up.
Everyone had contributed; everyone now shared the victory.
At the press conference it was confirmed the eyebrow cut had been treated and bandaged, adding to Yogan's decorated-warrior aura. Asked about his next opponent he repeated what he'd said inside the Octagon:
"Aldo or Conor. I don't care who. I just want that golden belt."
That night the $100,000 in double bonuses—Performance of the Night and Fight of the Night—hit his account. During the "non-alcoholic celebratory dinner" (Phil's rule bent by Javier) David Chen got a call from UA's global marketing director: Yogan's signature training gear had sold more than fifty thousand units online within three hours—numbers rivaling UFC's greatest champions. His commercial value soared.
The team gathered in a private room of a top French restaurant in Old Montreal. Yogan at last escaped the "rabbit diet," ordering a massive tomahawk steak under Phil's watchful "one portion" rule. The first juicy bite nearly brought him to tears—food, the purest joy of a top athlete during training.
They raised glasses of sparkling water, warmth in the air. DC and Luke reenacted Yogan's extreme backbend, nearly injuring themselves. Khabib quietly demolished a plate of tiramisu, smiling like a child.
Then Isabella's phone buzzed. She glanced, smiled, and handed it to Yogan. Conor McGregor's tweet had arrived:
> "A lucky underdog relied on a sneaky uppercut to beat a second-rate fighter who should have been gone long ago. Don't celebrate yet; wait till I knock out that old Portuguese-speaking man in Brazil, then I'll come back and trip your circuit breaker. #UFC189 #YouAreNext!"
The internet erupted. The feud between Yogan and Conor was now fully public and irreconcilable.
Yogan read the provocation, smiled faintly, and popped the last piece of steak into his mouth.
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