Javier stood silently in the dimly lit presidential suite, staring at Yogan. The young fighter's body was frail, his muscles sunken, his face gaunt—but his eyes burned with an unquenchable fire, a flame that seemed impossible for any mortal to extinguish. In them, Javier saw a reflection of the reckless, obsessive ambition he had once carried in his youth—the same kind of madness, the same desperate hunger for victory and honor that all true champions bore.Javier knew, deep down, that he could not dissuade Yogan. More accurately, Yogan had already convinced himself the moment he made that declaration in the hospital. These were kindred spirits—men who refused to bow to limitations, men willing to gamble their very bodies for the sake of legacy.With a heavy, resigned sigh, Javier's shoulders slumped. Yet beneath the despair, a steel-like determination flared. He stepped forward and gripped Yogan's shoulders tightly, locking eyes with him. Every word he spoke was deliberate, like a soldier issuing a final command before a battle."Good," Javier said slowly, each syllable carrying the weight of responsibility. "We will accompany you through this last leg of your journey. But you must promise me something—completely, unconditionally: you will follow Dr. Phil's instructions without question. Your body no longer belongs to you alone; it belongs to all of us. If any uncontrollable situation arises, we reserve the right to terminate everything. You must have no objections, whatsoever."Yogan's response was immediate, unwavering."I promise."In that moment, the gaunt figure before them, drained to the very limits of human endurance, was officially declared ready for the hellish week of weight cutting—a high-stakes gamble, a race against death itself.---The Presidential Suite Transforms into a BattlefieldWhen Yogan and his team arrived at the MGM Grand Hotel, they bypassed the standard UFC-assigned floors and instead secured the presidential suite on the top floor. It would serve as their fortress, the final stronghold before the decisive fight. Every inch of the luxurious suite became a tool, a weapon, in the merciless war against body weight.From the very first day, the transformation was horrifying to behold. Within mere hours, the soft contours of Yogan's face began to vanish. Muscles in his cheeks atrophied, and his cheekbones became sharply prominent. His eye sockets deepened, creating the eerie impression of twin black holes—yet the intensity of his gaze, sharpened by sheer mental focus, shone through the sunken hollows, a paradoxical brilliance that unsettled even his teammates.His skin lost its healthy glow, drying and stretching taut over lean muscle and bone. The once-vibrant fighter now resembled a mummy preserved with surgical precision, a grotesque sculpture of sheer determination. And yet, every inch of that shell radiated a single-minded focus, a ferocity that refused to yield to the ravages of hunger and dehydration.The sounds of the outside world faded to nothing. Conversation, the hum of the television, even the faint noise from the corridor outside—everything seemed filtered through an invisible curtain of water. Yogan existed in an isolated plane of suffering, utterly alone with his pain, yet paradoxically more alive than ever.---Mind Over BodyThe deprivation was extreme. Carbohydrates were forbidden. Water was rationed to the bare minimum. Every cell in his body screamed for energy, but Yogan had learned to suppress the cry. Even so, the deprivation induced terrifying hallucinations.At night, he would vaguely see his mother approaching his bed, carrying a steaming bowl of tomato egg noodles, the aroma so realistic that he instinctively reached out to grab it from the void. In other moments, he could "hear" the rushing sound of water from the tap, so vivid that he almost stumbled forward in search of relief.The only defense against these illusions was to retreat inward. Yogan transformed his mind into a virtual Octagon, replaying Aldo's fight endlessly. Every feint, every jab, every kick became a vivid mental exercise, a rehearsal that allowed him to distance himself from the torment of his physical body. Pain became abstract. Hunger became manageable. And the solitude, once suffocating, became a forge for his mind and spirit.---Hell's Weigh-InFinally, the day of reckoning arrived. It was 2:00 PM in Las Vegas. Two hours until the official weigh-in.The suite was tense to the point of suffocation. Yogan emerged from the steam-filled bathroom, wrapped in three layers of weight-loss garments, each layer soaked in sweat and clinging to his emaciated frame. Every step he took was unsteady, as if the floor beneath him were made of cotton.Javier and DC Cormier flanked him on either side, supporting him as he was lifted onto a delicate spare electronic scale in the center of the living room. Dr. Phil stood close, his forehead glistening with sweat, stopwatch in hand, counting down the final moments.The scale stabilized.145.8 pounds.A collective gasp filled the room. They were still 0.8 pounds above the standard Featherweight limit.DC cursed under his breath and punched the wall in frustration. Javier's face was stone-cold. Ordinarily, 0.8 pounds might have been trivial, but with Yogan's body pushed beyond the brink, it seemed insurmountable. The team collectively felt the weight of months of sacrifice hanging by a thread.Time was dwindling. Every known method of weight reduction had already been exhausted. If Yogan could not shed this final fraction, all their efforts might be rendered meaningless.---Extreme MeasuresAmid the tense silence, Yogan's weak but commanding voice cut through the room."Give me… the razor."The team froze. The man before them looked ready to collapse at any moment, yet his eyes burned with that impossible intensity.David Chen understood immediately and rushed to retrieve the hotel's brand-new shaving kit."Are you sure?" Javier asked, voice trembling.Yogan did not answer. He acted. With effort, he propped himself upright. DC handed him the electric razor, and the buzzing began.Clumps of his hair fell to the floor. Soon, the top of his head was gleaming bald. But Yogan did not stop. He methodically shaved every hair from his body, a ritualistic shedding of unnecessary weight, a Spartan prelude to war. The sound of the razor buzzing over his skin filled the suite, punctuated by the soft thud of hair hitting the carpet.When he stepped back onto the scale, the team held their collective breath.145.3 pounds.The shaving had yielded 0.5 pounds, yet they were still 0.3 pounds short.Every second became unbearable. The clock ticked down with cruel precision, and every face in the suite reflected the agony of anticipation. Time was slipping away, and the final, impossible weight remained just out of reach.The team exchanged grim looks. Javier's jaw tightened. DC's hands clenched into fists. Even Dr. Phil's professional composure wavered. The final fraction of a pound felt like a mountain, a cruel test of will, endurance, and resolve.Yogan, though visibly exhausted to the point of fragility, remained unyielding. His eyes, sunken and hollow, glowed with a strange fire—an unspoken declaration that he would not be denied, no matter the cost.This was the final stage, the ultimate trial in his journey at Featherweight. Every sacrifice, every ounce of pain, every hallucination endured in the solitary torment of his mind—all led to this moment.The battle was not over. But Yogan had already proven, in the silence and the suffering of Hell's Weighing Day, that his mind and spirit were stronger than any scale, any body, any limit the world could impose.The fight for his Featherweight legacy had truly begun.---
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