The atmosphere on the private jet back to California was nothing like the tense silence on the flight out. Now the cabin hummed with relief and victory. Faces were flushed with joy; shoulders that had been hunched before the fight now slumped in relaxation. Daniel Cormier even popped a bottle of champagne, filling crystal flutes for everyone on the team.
When he tried to hand one to Yogan, however, he met the unblinking stare of Dr. Phil. The glass of bubbling wine was quietly withdrawn and replaced with a tall tumbler of green juice—cabbage, beetroot, ginger and a dash of apple—mixed to support recovery. Yogan accepted it without complaint, the corners of his mouth twitching at the contrast.
Across the aisle, team members were glued to their phones, scrolling through fresh headlines, highlights and memes. Fans online were already calling Yogan's earth-shattering uppercut "God's Right Hand." Rival camps, especially Conor McGregor's supporters, dismissed it as a "fluke punch." Arguments erupted on forums and social media, threads burning hotter than the fight itself. Yet for the triumphant little group in the cabin, the noise outside was just pleasant background music.
Yogan sat by the window, chin resting on his hand, eyes fixed on the endless sea of clouds glowing gold under the setting sun. His gaze was so deep no one could tell what he was thinking. In his mind, the first and most solid step on the road to the throne had fallen perfectly into place. Now it was time for step two.
After a long moment, he turned toward his core team—David Chen, Isabella, and Dr. Phil.
"Tell Isabella the next phase of the public-relations plan can be launched," he said quietly but clearly. "The theme is 'Kingslayer.'"
David blinked. "Are we going to openly challenge Aldo now?"
By conventional logic, the biggest issue was the war of words with Conor. The obvious move would be to strike while the iron was hot, escalate the conflict and build momentum for a future showdown. Why aim at the relatively silent king instead?
A mysterious smile flickered on Yogan's lips. He didn't answer directly. Instead he asked, "Isabella, who do you think the fans want to see me fight most right now?"
"Conor," she replied without hesitation. "The narrative between you two is already electric—Eastern Wisdom versus Western Madness. It's a match made in heaven."
"Exactly." Yogan nodded. "Everyone thinks so—Conor and his team, Dana White, the entire MMA world. They expect me to go that route, get into a century-long war of words with Conor, then wait for him to finish with Aldo before facing me." His eyes sharpened. "But we won't. From now on our weapons are pointed only at one person: José Aldo."
He leaned forward, voice low but firm. "We want the whole world to see that I, Yogan, have no interest in Conor's circus. My eyes are on the true golden belt, on the king who's ruled the Featherweight division for ten years."
Isabella's own eyes lit up as she grasped the plan. "A feint to the east while attacking the west," she murmured. "We'll pour all our firepower on Aldo, hyping up the 'Kingslayer' theme. We'll emphasize again and again that the only thing that makes sense is defeating the real king. That builds the image of a traditionalist who defies kings—and it makes Conor look like a clown."
"He's not just a clown," Yogan added, smile widening. "While everyone thinks my target is Aldo, Conor will be the one ignored. Considering his personality, what will he do?"
"He'll attack you even more viciously to get your attention," DC blurted, slapping his thigh.
"Exactly." Yogan snapped his fingers. "Let him rage, let him perform. We just stay cool and continue to challenge Aldo at all costs. The bigger the contrast, the better. We want the UFC and every fan to think: Yogan only wants Aldo. He's Aldo's number-one rival."
David finally saw the brilliance. "Then if something unexpected happens—say, an injury forces someone out and the UFC needs a replacement—we can step in for an interim title fight with Conor 'for the greater good,' reluctantly, with the moral high ground. We'd hold all the cards."
"Bingo." Yogan leaned back, staring into the deepening night sky as if he could already see the fateful bloodbath in Las Vegas a few months ahead. His plan, like a Swiss watch, ticked forward relentlessly toward its predetermined future.
---
The plane touched down at the private airport in San Jose. Team members dispersed—DC and Luke hugging and heading out for a late-night snack, Khabib slipping quietly into his car, Isabella and David rushing back to the office to execute the "Kingslayer" plan.
Dr. Phil drove Yogan to his house, handing him a box of healing potions and nutritional supplements before leaving. In his flat, robotic voice he said, "Avoid strenuous exercise for forty-eight hours. Get at least sixteen hours of deep sleep. I'll return in two days for a full evaluation."
Yogan nodded and watched the car disappear. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the silent villa. The house was dark except for the glittering lights of Silicon Valley outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, scattered like distant stars.
He didn't bother with the lights. Moving through the darkness, he collapsed onto the large sofa in the living room. The cushions embraced his exhausted body, and for the first time in months his nerves uncoiled. Darkness and loneliness were the best catalysts.
The "Mountain" persona—calm, stable, filled with wisdom—melted like ice, revealing its primal core. An indescribable joy surged from the depths of his chest, flooding his limbs.
He had won. He had knocked out the "Diamond," stronger than in his previous life, in the cleanest way possible. One step closer to the ultimate goal.
At last, an irrepressible smile broke across his normally stoic face. It widened, and finally, unable to hold back, he released a long-suppressed roar.
"Ahhh!"
In that roar was victory, release, and a declaration of war on fate.
He leapt from the couch, barefoot, shadow-boxing in the vast living room—left jab, right straight, uppercut—repeating the finishing move again and again, savoring the memory of fist on jaw. Like a child he spun in circles, then lay on the cool floor staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, grinning.
This was it.
Stripped of ostentation and burden, he was simply a warrior hungry for victory, reveling in conquest, overflowing with primal rivalry and aggression. The "Mountain" armor shielded him from distractions on his thorny path, but beneath it burned a passion hotter than Conor's fire, a hunger to devour everything.
Two more fights. Beat Conor. Beat Aldo. Claim the golden belt—the symbol of ultimate honor—and then break free from the shrinking cage of the Featherweight division into the wider world.
He closed his eyes, names from Lightweight flashing through his mind—Oliveira, Ferguson, Gaethje, dos Anjos. Thinking about facing those true monsters made his blood boil anew.
---
After two days of rest, Dr. Phil confirmed the cut on his eyebrow had healed and all bodily functions were normal. Yogan returned eagerly to the AKA gym. His comeback lifted the whole room. He was no longer just a talented prospect but the undisputed number-one contender. Teammates congratulated him with fist bumps and smiles.
Coach Javier, however, didn't ease up. If anything, his demands increased. "Rest one more week, then back to training," he ordered, writing two names on the tactical board. "Every detail must be at a level where we can intervene at any time. We need to be fully prepared."
Yogan nodded happily. This was his initiative; he wanted no soft treatment.
Meanwhile Isabella's "Kingslayer" campaign erupted across media. In an unprecedented push, Yogan's team openly challenged Featherweight champion José Aldo on every platform.
They released a series of high-quality short films.
The first, "Legacy," showed Yogan alone in a darkened training room late at night, watching Aldo's old fights. His eyes glimmered with respect for the great champion. Over it came Yogan's calm voice-over: "In the history of the Featherweight division, José Aldo is a monument. To become a legend, one must surpass this monument."
The second film, "Challenge," featured Yogan speaking directly to the camera. "King," he said, "I know your fight with Conor is set. But I want you to know—whoever wins, I'll be next. I respect your past achievements, so I hope to end your era personally."
These videos were respectful yet defiant, portraying Yogan as a legitimate martial artist who "respects tradition and fears no force." The contrast with Conor's wild provocations was stark.
Conor could not stand being ignored. Feeling like a clown dancing for a hero who refused even to look at him was worse than any insult. His social media turned into an arsenal of attacks aimed at Yogan.
"That Chinese kid ignores me! He's scared! He knows my left hand will rip his head off!" one post screamed. "Kingslayer? Don't make me laugh. You don't even have the guts to challenge me! You're just an impostor hiding behind a coward's mask!"
He even posted a video of himself pounding a heavy bag printed with Yogan's face, ending with a savage punch and a shout at the camera: "This is your destiny!"
The war of words escalated. Conor's frenzied outbursts clashed with Yogan's cool defiance of Aldo, creating a strange, high-drama tension. The entire combat-sports world was captivated by this distant duel.
Major outlets—ESPN, Fox Sports—ran wall-to-wall coverage of the growing "love triangle." Headlines blared:
"Who Is the Real Number-One Contender?"
"Will the Final Showdown Between Eastern Wisdom and Western Madness Come Early?"
"Forgotten King: Is There a Prize for Aldo, Conor and Yogan to Fight For?"
The public's focus began to shift from the scheduled Aldo-Conor title fight to the still-unseen Conor-Yogan clash, a bout filled with endless possibilities.
Meanwhile the true king, José Aldo, who had dominated the Featherweight division for almost a decade, was being pushed to the margins—reduced to a backdrop, a symbol, in this earth-shaking war of words. Each new exchange between Conor and Yogan stole the headlines. Reports about Aldo's training barely drew notice.
Such was the power of narrative.
The public-opinion war orchestrated by Yogan had stolen the king's reputation before a single punch was thrown. Step by step, like clockwork, his plan advanced toward the moment when Eastern Wisdom and Western Madness would finally collide.
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