Chapter 79 - Chapter 78: The Perfect Fighting Body

Accompanied by volcanic chants rolling down from the stands, Yogan appeared at the tunnel entrance. The noise was so dense it felt physical, like hot air pressing against his skin.For a heartbeat time seemed to slow. He stripped off his black walkout jacket and tracksuit, baring his torso to the lights of the MGM Grand Garden Arena. It was his first public appearance on the scales as a welterweight, a full division above the one he had dominated for years.Tens of thousands of spectators inside the arena, fighters and staff backstage, and millions watching the live broadcast around the world collectively held their breath. What they saw stunned them into silence.A Body Forged for WarWhat stood on the stage was no longer the wiry featherweight champion who had carved up opponents with surgical precision. Without the emaciated thinness that came from relentless weight cuts, Yogan's physique was full and powerful, each muscle fiber standing out under the spotlights like it had been chiseled from bronze. His skin glistened with a healthy, dangerous glow.His latissimus dorsi flared like wings when he rolled his shoulders. His arms were thicker than ever, his traps and deltoids swelling with explosive strength. Compared with his featherweight days he looked almost like another species—a perfect fusion of power and aesthetics, of predator and artist.This was not merely a fighter who had gone up a division. This was a human beast, freed from the genetic shackles of depletion, standing at his natural peak with all of his power fully unleashed."Seventy-six point six kilograms!"The MC announced the number with a shaky voice, as if aware that he was introducing a moment people would replay for years.Yogan broke into a relaxed smile—a genuine, almost boyish smile he hadn't shown at a weigh-in in a long time. He raised both arms high, displaying not just his biceps but his ease. Gone was the slightly drawn, tired look of previous weigh-ins. In its place was composure and confidence.He even had the presence of mind to scowl playfully at DC Cormier, who was waving a bucket of fried chicken in the audience like a gleeful two-hundred-pound child cheering on his little brother. The cameras caught the moment and the arena roared with laughter.Eye of the StormThe atmosphere surged to its peak as Yogan and Diaz stepped to the center of the stage. Two men, two styles, less than an arm's length apart. Dana White's shiny bald head was the only barrier between them.Diaz wore his classic "Stockton zombie" face—vacant yet provocative. His lips moved in a rapid-fire stream of street-honed trash talk, raining insults like bullets into Yogan's space. He sneered that Yogan's muscles were nothing but a showpiece, promising to beat him bloody and send him home crying.But Yogan's reaction shocked everyone.He didn't snarl back. He didn't glare with icy eyes like he often did. He simply stared at Diaz with a faint, almost pitying smile—a look so alien it froze the air around them.It was the expression of a modern special-forces soldier, helmeted and armed, regarding a primitive man waving a stone axe. It wasn't anger; it was a kind of calm, incomprehensible disdain from a higher plane. A silent verdict from someone who had already run the numbers and knew the outcome.That single glance was more lethal than any insult.Diaz's stream of words faltered and died. He had made his name on provoking opponents, feeding off their rage. No one had ever answered him with this kind of cold, condescending pity. A flicker of unease passed across his face.Finally, Diaz scowled, finding it boring, and turned away.Yogan accepted the microphone from the MC. He looked out over the tens of thousands of fans and countless cameras and spoke just one sentence—quiet, measured, but sharp enough to cut through the roar.> "You will witness a massacre tomorrow night."He didn't throw the mic. He didn't roar. He placed it gently back on the stand and walked offstage, leaving behind only a figure brimming with power and killing intent and a prophecy echoing through the arena.The Night Before BattleFight night. Backstage at the MGM Grand Garden Arena.Unlike the tense, almost monk-like atmosphere before previous fights, the mood in Yogan's private lounge felt strangely light, almost festive. His team moved around with quiet efficiency; a few even joked softly, as though they knew something the world didn't.Normally at this hour, Yogan would be in the throes of rehydration after a brutal weight cut, his face drawn and eyes slightly sunken. Tonight he looked like a man who had woken from the best sleep of his life.Dr. Phil's sports-science team worked on his muscles, kneading and stretching, while Yogan reclined with eyes closed. His body felt perfect—veins thrumming with energy, muscles storing explosive force, mind sharper than it had ever been.The sensation was intoxicating: like a beast that had been caged too long finally sensing the door open, ready to burst out and reclaim its forest.Coach Javier entered, clapping his hands once to hush the murmurs. He wore no serious mask of worry—only the excitement of a man about to witness history."Yogan, it's almost time. Nate Diaz has already made his entrance."Yogan swung off the massage table in one fluid motion, every movement coiled with power. Team members closed in to help him gear up. He held out his arms as the trainer slid on his fingerless gloves and wrapped his fists carefully. With each layer of white tape, the last traces of relaxation melted away, replaced by an abyss-deep focus.Across the TunnelOn the monitors, the broadcast showed Diaz making his walk. Gangsta rap thundered through the speakers as the Stockton fighter strode down the tunnel, middle fingers raised for the cameras, his face a mask of nonchalance. Boos and cheers collided in waves. He looked like a gladiator leaving the streets of Stockton for the Roman Colosseum, trailing chaos behind him.Coach Javier tapped Yogan on the shoulder one last time, eyes shining."Remember our plan. Control the fight with your rhythm. Don't let him drag you into a dirty street brawl."Yogan nodded. He drew a deep breath in, exhaled slowly, centering himself.Just as he was about to step out, a hand rested lightly on his arm. It was George Mumford, the legendary sports psychologist brought in for this camp."Yogan," Mumford said, his voice calm but resonant. "Inside the Octagon your emotions are both your sharpest weapon and your deadliest weakness. Feel them. Control them. Then… destroy them."For a moment their eyes met. Yogan gave a slow nod. Then he turned toward the tunnel, walking into the roar of an arena that had become a living, breathing creature.He was no longer the featherweight champion. He was no longer simply a striker. He was the perfect fighting body, the apex of years of science, discipline, and obsession, stepping into the cage to prove a prophecy true.---