Chapter 47 - Episode 47: Post-Match Press Conference

The sound of Bruce Buffer's voice thundered through the arena like a crack of lightning:> "AND NEW…!""INTERIM… UFC… FEATHERWEIGHT… WORLD CHAMPION…!""FROM CHINA…!""'FLASH'… THE SUN IS HERE!"The veteran announcer's voice was hoarse from hours of shouting, yet still burned with passion. Each word rolled across the packed stadium and ignited a tidal wave of emotion. The Chinese section roared with pride, Irish fans groaned with disbelief, and millions watching around the globe held their breath.Dana White himself stepped forward with the glinting interim championship belt. The gold plates looked almost icy under the bright lights as he wrapped it around Yogan's waist. At that instant, the young man who had always been chasing the light finally became the light.Someone from the crowd handed Yogan a vibrant five-star red flag. He draped it over his shoulders with deliberate care. For a heartbeat he stood still, chest rising and falling, the belt glinting against the flag, a living symbol of a country's hope.---In-Cage InterviewJoe Rogan entered the Octagon with microphone in hand. The crowd's roar dimmed to an expectant hush. "Yogan! Congratulations! What a fantastic victory! Tell the world—how are you feeling right now?"Yogan took the microphone. His eyes flicked first to Conor, still lying dazed on the canvas, then to the disappointed sea of Irish flags beyond the cage. He drew a deep breath, then spoke in fluent, steady English:"First of all, I want to thank my opponent, Conor McGregor. He's a great warrior, a real fighter. Without him, this great fight wouldn't have happened. Let's give him a round of applause too."The arena answered with a storm of applause—some respectful, some reluctant, all loud."Then I want to thank my team, AKA!" Yogan's voice rose. "We are the strongest team in the world! Javier, DC, Khabib, Phil—every single one of my brothers! You're the ones who made me who I am today. This belt belongs to all of us!"He hoisted the gold belt high above his head. The crowd erupted."Finally," he continued, "I want to thank my homeland, my family, and all my Chinese fans who support me! You're the ones who give me endless strength to keep fighting!"His gaze swept the audience until it found his parents in the front row. For a moment his battle-hardened face softened. Then, to everyone's surprise, he shifted back to perfect, clear Chinese and spoke directly into the camera:> "Dad, Mom—I didn't embarrass you!""Chinese martial arts can also stand at the top of the world!"Those words shot across satellites and fiber-optic cables to living rooms and sports bars thousands of kilometers away. In cities and villages all over China, viewers wiped their eyes. The comment feeds on streaming apps exploded with crying emojis and national flags. Personal glory and patriotism fused into one overwhelming moment.In that instant Yogan's image transformed. He wasn't just a champion anymore. He was a hero.---An Hour Later – The Press ConferenceFlashbulbs lit the media room as brightly as midday. Cameras clicked like machine guns. Yogan, freshly showered and dressed in a clean tailored suit, sat at the front table. The cuts and bruises still etched on his face only sharpened his presence—battle scars worn like medals.The interim championship belt lay on the table beside his microphone, gleaming under the spotlights. Each reflection of gold and silver seemed to pulse with the noise of the crowd outside.Across from him sat Conor McGregor. Huge sunglasses covered half his battered face, but nothing could hide the scowl in his jaw or the tremor of rage in his hands. He had lost not only a fight but his aura.Before a single journalist could ask a question, Conor snatched up his microphone. His voice cracked with fury:"I refuse to accept this defeat! This wasn't a fair fight, damn it!"Flashbulbs popped. Reporters murmured."He ran the entire fight! He kicked my legs like a coward! This is a coward's tactic! He didn't dare exchange punches with me with dignity!"Conor slammed a fist on the table. "His stamina's questionable! He must have used prohibited substances! I demand the strictest drug test!"Like a gambler who's lost everything, he searched frantically for excuses, anything to shift blame. His eyes darted from the belt to Yogan, hatred burning behind the sunglasses.Finally he pointed a trembling finger across the table. "Impostor! He's not a real man! Just running! Next time, I swear I'll knock him out in the first round! Rematch! I want a rematch now!"The press conference dissolved into chaos—reporters shouting over each other, flashes strobing.---Yogan's ResponseThrough it all, Yogan remained still. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. He simply let Conor's words roll past him like waves against a rock. When the tirade subsided, he slowly reached out, picked up the gleaming belt, and set it directly in front of his microphone.Then, with one finger, he tapped the cold metal where the UFC logo was engraved.Tap.Tap.Tap.The sound echoed through the hall, soft but piercing, slicing cleanly through the remaining noise. Reporters fell silent. Cameras zoomed in on his hand. Even Conor paused mid-rant.Yogan raised his eyes and scanned the rows of journalists. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost casual, yet carried the weight of a hammer:"Did everyone hear that?" he asked softly."That's the sound of a winner."He paused, letting the words sink in."As for the loser's bark…" A faint, almost playful curl lifted one side of his mouth. "I'm not interested in listening."A ripple of laughter moved through the press rows, quickly muffled by the tension."You want a rematch with me?" Yogan's gaze slid to the man in sunglasses. "Fine. First go win a fight. Prove you still deserve to stand in the Octagon. Then we can talk."His voice hardened. "Don't think a fight can always break out when someone else's ribs are injured."The words struck like a dagger. Reporters exchanged glances. They knew he was referencing the injury rumors Conor had tried to exploit before the bout.Conor's chair screeched back as he surged to his feet, trembling, finger stabbing the air. "You—!" he choked, almost lunging across the table. Security shifted nervously.But Yogan was already rising. Without a glance at Conor, he straightened his suit jacket, collected his belt, and turned toward the exit.Flashbulbs chased him like comets. Conor's anger flared behind him, but Yogan moved with unhurried grace, his team forming a protective arc around him. The image was cinematic: a composed champion walking away while a beaten rival shook with rage in the background—a perfect split-screen for media around the world.---The AftermathHeadlines would call it everything from "The Birth of a Legend" to "The Night a Nation Roared." In bars from Beijing to Boston, fans replayed the moment Yogan tapped the belt—three little sounds that said more than a thousand words. Clips of his Chinese declaration to his parents became the top trending video overnight.Inside the arena, however, the scene was simpler: a young man draped in a flag, holding a belt, walking out with his team and his family as though surveying his new kingdom. The cameras caught his father's rough hands gripping his mother's shoulders, both of them crying openly now.Reporters whispered that the conflict between Yogan and Conor was far from over. If anything, the fire burned hotter than ever. But for that night, one truth was undisputed:Yogan's era had begun.---