Chapter 52 - Chapter 51: God War

The next morning.When the first rays of sunlight pierced the thin desert clouds and poured over the glittering streets of Las Vegas, the city still throbbed faintly with last night's energy. Yet inside the private terminal of McCarran Airport, the mood was utterly different. Without press, without cheering fans, Yogan and his close entourage quietly boarded a sleek white private jet that would take them back to California.From the oval window, the view of Las Vegas was surreal. The neon skyline that had loomed like a giant carnival only hours before now appeared small and harmless, shrinking to a speck of gold against the endless tan of the desert. Yogan leaned back in his leather seat and closed his eyes.He had taken everything the fight world could offer: the glory, the title, the tens of millions of dollars, the awe of a global audience. Yet in this moment he wanted none of it. He left the noise, the flashbulbs, the champagne toasts, and the endless interviews behind on the tarmac, like a costume he had outgrown.By the time the jet touched down in San Jose, the California sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in amber and rose. The luxury villa in the suburbs awaited them—quiet, private, a far cry from the roaring arenas Yogan had just conquered. He carried his parents' luggage himself, personally leading them to the spacious master bedroom on the first floor, the room that received the best morning light. It was a small gesture, but to Yogan it felt like a promise fulfilled.That evening, he cooked. No catering, no celebrity chef—just a simple, fragrant home-cooked meal. As the three of them sat in the warm glow of the dining room chandelier, his parents laughed at the novelty of the smart home appliances, pressing buttons and speaking commands to the voice assistant. On the wall-mounted TV a special news segment about Yogan's victory played, but for once he barely glanced at it.What filled him now wasn't adrenaline or pride but a quiet, almost unfamiliar peace. Watching his parents' faces soften with contentment, seeing their eyes shine with both pride and relief, Yogan felt happier than at any moment during the fight or the post-fight celebrations.In his previous life—one that still haunted his memories—his parents had worried about him until their final days. In this lifetime he swore it would be different. He would build a life where their smiles outweighed their fears.Over the next few days, Yogan officially entered what he jokingly called "vacation mode." He gave his entire team an extended break. Using a portion of his prize money, he handed each core member a generous red envelope—enough for them to take their families on a well-deserved holiday."Don't waste your money on us," Coach Javier had said, trying to sound stern, but his wide grin betrayed him.To outsiders a champion's life should be a carousel of luxury cars, supermodels, and endless parties. But Yogan chose differently. Each morning he walked with his parents through the tree-lined suburban streets. Some afternoons he took them to Chinese markets where his mother debated over vegetables as if she were back home. In the evenings they sat together on the sand at a nearby beach, watching the Pacific swallow the sun.He muted most of his social media notifications. He declined commercial shoots and high-profile interviews that Isabella had lined up. For a short while he shed the skin of "Champion Yogan" and became simply "son" again.His body responded gratefully. Weeks of training camps and back-to-back fights had left it tense and bruised, but now the stiffness melted away. Gentle runs, light pad work, a disciplined diet—these were enough to keep him from "rusting" without draining his reserves.He knew almost for certain that the unification bout with José Aldo, the true Featherweight king, would take place before the year's end. That gave him five months—a rare luxury in the fight world. For now there was no rush, only the slow, deliberate rebuilding of strength and focus.One quiet night, with his parents asleep upstairs and the villa wrapped in a blanket of silence, Yogan sat alone in the living room. In his hand was not whiskey or champagne but a simple glass of warm water. The giant projection screen glowed in front of him.He didn't choose a Hollywood blockbuster or one of the endless interview reruns. Instead he scrolled through the UFC Fight Pass library until he found the bout he'd been waiting for: the co-main event from UFC 189, the Welterweight Championship fight between "Ruthless" Robbie Lawler and "Red King" Rory MacDonald.He had watched the highlights countless times in his previous life, each viewing sending a shiver through his blood. To him, it was the quintessential MMA war—the most brilliant, brutal, and transcendent fight he had ever seen, embodying the sport's savage beauty and raw courage.He had missed it live, of course. That night he had been backstage preparing for his own fight. Even now it remained a small regret, a void he needed to fill. Tonight he would.He turned up the surround sound and pressed play. Bruce Buffer's legendary voice filled the room, echoing with passion as the two fighters were introduced. On screen, they stood at the center of the Octagon like statues carved from opposing myths.Robbie Lawler: a scarred, stone-faced champion who looked as though he had crawled out of street fights and never left them behind.Rory MacDonald: the handsome, technically brilliant prodigy hailed as "GSP's successor," his calm demeanor masking a calculating mind.The bell rang. Round one unfolded like a chess match disguised as violence. Both men circled cautiously, every feint and jab heavy with intent. Yogan leaned forward on the sofa, elbows on knees. From his current level of experience he could see what casual viewers missed—the subtle shifts of distance, the micro-adjustments of rhythm. It was textbook fighting at its highest level.Round two arrived like a sudden storm. The tempo spiked; the air inside the Octagon seemed to thicken. MacDonald's high kick cracked against Lawler's skull, sending the champion staggering back. Yogan's own muscles tensed involuntarily. The Red King pressed forward, strikes flowing like a river, but Lawler refused to break, his iron will and monstrous durability on full display.The third round escalated the violence. MacDonald's combinations grew sharper, quicker, each punch landing with surgical precision. A slicing elbow opened a deep gash in Lawler's lip; blood poured down, staining his chest and beard crimson. At the horn, Lawler spat out a mouthful of blood and flashed his opponent a feral smile—a smile that said, You've hurt me. Now it's my turn.A chill raced up Yogan's spine. Even through the screen he could feel the primal energy of that moment. This was a monster smiling from the mouth of hell.Round four. Lawler's fists found their mark. One heavy shot collapsed MacDonald's nose, blood gushing like a faucet. The Red King's once-handsome face was now swollen, distorted, almost unrecognizable. Yet he continued to fight, his body screaming but his technique still sharp, still dangerous.Then the fifth and final round dawned—a slow-motion apocalypse. Lawler's lip still bled. MacDonald's nose was obliterated. Both men dragged their battered bodies to the center of the cage, no feints, no retreat.Lawler's left hook detonated on MacDonald's shattered nose. The Red King's body seized, the unbearable pain shutting him down as if a switch had been flipped. He clutched his face and fell backward. The war was over.Robbie Lawler—crawling back from hell—roared like an animal, blood dripping from his mouth as the gold belt remained around his waist.Yogan exhaled sharply. Only then did he notice his palms were slick with sweat. Even from the safety of his living room, the fight's tragic heroism had poured through the screen, filling him with awe.This was MMA. The world's most unforgiving sport. There were no cowards here. Every man who stood under those bright lights, inside that steel cage, was a warrior who deserved respect."My striking…" Yogan murmured to himself. "Compared to them, I still have a gap."He asked the question he had avoided for months: If I were Rory MacDonald, facing Lawler's zombie-like pressure and heavy hands, would I have lasted into the fifth round? Would I still have the composure to execute technique with a broken nose, a shattered face?The answer, whispered from some honest place inside him, was maybe not.He sat back, eyes still fixed on the frozen image of Lawler roaring at the world. The living room was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. His reflection on the black window glass looked back at him: a champion, yes, but not yet the champion he wanted to be.The fight he had just watched was not merely a spectacle. It was a warning, a lesson, a mirror. If he wanted to stand atop the mountain not just for one night but for years, if he wanted to unify the title and keep it, he needed to become something more.He needed to become the fighter who could break and still move forward. He needed to become the man who could walk through hell and smile.Yogan rose from the couch, turned off the projector, and stood for a long moment in the darkened living room, the glass of water still in his hand. Outside, the California night was cool and quiet. Inside, his heartbeat was steady, his mind already reaching toward the future.The glitz of Las Vegas had been like fireworks—dazzling but fleeting. What truly mattered was the grind waiting for him back at the gym, the warmth of family that anchored him, and the fire in his chest that refused to go out.---