Chapter 48 - Episode 48 – Competition Revenue

Las Vegas at night was a dazzling spectacle, as always. Neon lights rippled down the Strip like liquid stars, music boomed from rooftop clubs, and the entire desert city seemed to pulse with energy. Yet, high above the glittering chaos, on the top floor of the MGM Grand's sky-villa suite, all that noise and commotion faded away. Inside the spacious living room, a different kind of heat and excitement filled the air—one not of gambling and neon, but of home, family, and triumph.Yogan had just returned from the most exhausting, glorious night of his life. After finishing the post-fight press conference, clearing the mandatory USADA swab and full medical examination—processes that stretched to well over an hour—he finally pushed open the heavy double doors to the suite. The faint scent of disinfectant and sweat still clung to him like battlefield smoke. But as soon as he stepped inside, the aroma of home-cooked food washed over him and dissolved the stress instantly.His right eyebrow bore five fresh stitches, the thin white tape like a warrior's medal across his face. The swelling on his jaw gave him a slightly uneven look, but it only accentuated the rugged charm that cameras loved. This, Yogan thought with a small smile, was the true trophy of a fighter's life—scars earned, not inherited.He stood still for a heartbeat, breathing in the warm, familiar smell. It wasn't hotel food. It wasn't even from a five-star restaurant. It was something far more precious. The large mahogany dining table glowed under the chandelier, loaded with steaming dishes: stewed pork belly glistening with soy glaze, sweet-and-sour ribs piled high, Coca-Cola chicken wings sticky and fragrant, a perfectly steamed sea bass with ginger and scallion, a bubbling clay pot of Mapo tofu. More than thirty dishes in all, almost every single one from Yogan's childhood memories. Each dish radiated the kind of care that no professional chef could imitate.His mother—tiny, bustling, red-eyed from crying—had personally coordinated everything with Isabella, Yogan's manager. Using the hotel's top-tier kitchen, she had prepared a banquet not for a celebrity but for her son. This, Yogan thought, was the truest reward for walking through the hell of weight-cutting, the reward of returning from the battlefield alive."Yogan, quick, eat while it's hot!" his mother cried, rushing forward. Her hands, calloused from years of work, trembled slightly as she guided him to the head of the table.His father, silent but glowing with pride, set down a large bowl of rice in front of him. The man's temples were whiter than before Yogan left for training camp, yet his back remained straight as a spear.Yogan lowered himself into the chair. For a moment, the noise of the Octagon, the crowd, the flashing cameras—all of it—faded. He looked at the dishes, at the people he loved most, and the entire last year's worth of hardship, pain, and pressure condensed into a single bittersweet lump in his throat. He picked up his chopsticks and dropped a piece of glistening pork belly into his mouth.The meat was soft yet springy, rich but not greasy, melting instantly on his tongue. He didn't speak. He simply bowed his head and ate, each bite grounding him back into the world he had fought so hard to rise from.His mother, watching her champion son devour food like a child again, covered her mouth, half-laughing and half-crying. On the other side of the table, the hardened men of American Kickboxing Academy—Javier Mendez, Daniel "DC" Cormier, Khabib Nurmagomedov, and others—stared in wide-eyed amazement at the spread.They had seen championship bonuses, title belts, and world tours. But they had never seen a Chinese mother prepare a victory feast like this."Oh my God, Javier! You've got to try this!" DC said, his mouth already full of sweet-and-sour ribs. Sauce clung to his beard, but he didn't care. "This is a million times better than my grandma's fried chicken!"Even Coach Javier, normally a bastion of stoicism, cracked a smile as he savored the Mapo tofu. "We're getting spoiled tonight," he murmured. "I should open a gym in Beijing."When the plates were finally cleared and everyone had eaten until they could barely move, Javier clapped his hands sharply. "Alright, gentlemen," he said, his coach's voice regaining its edge. "Before we start celebrating too hard, it's time to calculate tonight's spoils of war."The room instantly fell quiet. All eyes turned to Isabella, who sat near the balcony with a tablet glowing in her hands. Her professional mask was barely holding back a tremor of excitement. She cleared her throat."Ready to hear the tsunami of wealth, fame, and sunshine?" she teased, her voice rising. "Because, Yogan, tonight you didn't just win a fight. You detonated a bomb."She turned the tablet toward him. "First of all, social media feedback," she began quickly. "In just three hours since the fight, your Instagram followers have skyrocketed from 1.2 million to over five million—and it's still climbing by thousands every minute. On Twitter, you've broken 3.5 million. And in China—" she shook her head in disbelief—"Weibo servers crashed three times because of your name. You've officially surpassed 25.5 million followers there. You are now the most searched, most discussed name in the global sports world."A low whistle passed through the room."Business invitations are even crazier." She flicked to another screen. "From the moment we left the press conference my phone and email have been blowing up. Over fifty major brands have officially expressed interest in working with you. Nike. Adidas. Rolex. BMW. Porsche. Even Coca-Cola and Apple have sent representatives to contact me. They're lining up to make you their global spokesperson."Around the table, the AKA team exchanged stunned looks. Yogan, however, felt mostly calm. Fame was intoxicating, yes, but he knew this: all of it was built on victory. Without the win, the brands and the numbers meant nothing.He set down his chopsticks. "That's all great," he said quietly. "But let's talk about the real numbers. Isabella—how much did we actually make from this fight?"The manager took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was clear and strong, but even she couldn't keep a tremor of awe from it."According to the UFC's preliminary official stats and our team's calculations," she said, "UFC 189's pay-per-view buys reached approximately 1.1 million. That completely smashes the all-time record for any non-heavyweight division."Gasps rose around the room."Based on the 'Championship Challenger' contract you signed before the fight, your base purse was one million dollars," Isabella continued. "Tonight you also earned a $50,000 'Fight of the Night' bonus. So your base income is $1.05 million."She paused, eyes glittering. "But the real jackpot is the PPV share. According to the industry-highest revenue-sharing agreement we negotiated, once PPV sales surpass 200,000, you receive a $5 share for every additional purchase."She tapped at the tablet, numbers racing across the screen. "That's 1.1 million minus 200,000 equals 900,000 extra buys, times $5. From PPV sharing alone, your pre-tax income will be about $4.5 million. Add the base purse and bonus, and your total personal income from this one fight is $6.05 million."The room erupted in a collective hiss of disbelief. Even veterans like DC and Luke Rockhold were frozen mid-bite, chicken wings poised in midair.One fight. Just twenty minutes inside the Octagon. Over six million dollars.This wasn't sports income anymore. This was a high-speed money machine.Isabella wasn't finished. "As per our internal team tradition, twenty percent of the total income will be allocated as team bonuses. Ten percent—$605,000—goes to Coach Javier and AKA Gym for facility improvements and youth training. The remaining ten percent will be distributed among Dr. Phil, myself, and the other core team members based on contributions. This time, the team as a whole will share over $1.2 million."DC couldn't contain himself. He shot up from his chair, threw an arm around Yogan's neck, and shouted, "Oh my God! I love you, Yogan! $1.2 million! Do you realize that's more than most champions make in a single fight? You are the golden sign of AKA!"The room erupted in laughter. DC lowered his voice, half-joking and half-serious. "Let me tell you a story. There used to be a cruiserweight boxer—somewhat famous—but stingy as hell. After he won a fight, the money he gave his team wasn't even enough to cover his coach's gas. What happened? No one wanted to be his sparring partner anymore. The best trainers avoided him. He had nowhere to train. No one wants to work with a stingy guy. But you, Yogan…" He clapped him on the back. "You're generous. After you, we brothers can eat meat and drink wine!"Everyone laughed again. But under the laughter, pride flickered in Yogan's eyes. He wasn't just fighting for himself. He was building a circle of loyalty, a foundation that would last longer than a single belt.He looked around the table—at his parents, at Javier, at DC, at Khabib, at Isabella. These were the people who had seen him at his weakest, who had held mitts for him until their shoulders burned, who had believed in him before the world even knew his name.Money was good. Glory was better. But family—blood or chosen—was everything.He raised his glass of warm tea. "Thank you," he said simply. "To everyone."They raised their glasses in return. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Las Vegas glittered like a field of diamonds. Inside, a small group of people sat around a table heavy with food, their laughter rising above the desert night.For Yogan, the night of UFC 189 was not just about a victory. It was about a new life unfolding—one where fame, fortune, and responsibility all converged. He had stepped into the Octagon as a challenger. He left as a phenomenon.And as he looked down at the five stitches on his eyebrow, the swollen knuckles on his hands, and the proud faces around him, Yogan knew one thing with absolute clarity:This was only the beginning.---