Chapter 80 - Chapter 79: Guanghan Breaks the Order and the King Appears

All the members of the team—Javier, DC, Luke, Dr. Remy, David Chen, Isabella—stood shoulder to shoulder in the locker room. Their palms stacked one over another, they formed a living pillar of trust and fury. The fluorescent lights above hummed quietly, but the tension inside the room roared louder than any crowd."AKA!" Javier growled, his voice thick with fire."Victory!" they thundered back in unison, their shout reverberating off the walls like a war drum. Every syllable carried years of sweat, training, and unspoken brotherhood.When the heavy door swung open, a tidal wave of noise crashed into them. The sound was not merely heard; it was felt—a vibration in their ribs, a tremor under their feet.At the center of this storm walked Yogan, surrounded by his teammates like an armored phalanx. He moved toward the warrior tunnel, that narrow corridor leading to Hell and to Heaven, to ruin or to immortality.The arena lights dimmed. Spotlights fractured the darkness until one beam cut through like a blade and fell upon him. In that instant the world seemed to shrink, all color fading except for the pale circle of light around his silhouette.Tonight the entrance music was no longer the familiar "Ambush from Ten Sides." Instead, a new melody poured from the speakers—a theme no one had heard before, a furious yet elegant arrangement titled "Disrupting the Formation of Guanghan Palace."A hush swept the crowd as the strange music unfurled. The opening notes rose like a silver tide; drums pounded like celestial hammers. Under this thunder, Yogan walked step by step. His stride was unhurried, yet each footfall landed with the steadiness of a heartbeat—his heartbeat, their heartbeat, the heartbeat of every soul in the arena.He did not wave, did not glance left or right. His black eyes were fixed forward, calm as a frozen lake, on the brightly lit Octagon that would bear witness to history. In that moment, he no longer resembled a mortal warrior but a god from the Moon Palace, descending the steps of an unseen altar to deliver divine punishment.As Yogan placed a foot upon the Octagon steps, the music ceased mid-phrase. Silence fell like snow.He advanced to the cage, his gaze locked on Nate Diaz. Between them stretched only the polished floor and the weight of years, two predators from different eras stepping onto a single hunting ground.The steel door swung shut with a metallic groan. Click. The lock slid home—a bell ringing at the start of a century's gamble.Inside, the noise of the MGM Grand Garden Arena seemed to vanish, as if an invisible membrane sealed the hundred-square-meter space. Referee Herb Dean approached with his signature solemn expression. His final recitation of the rules echoed between the fighters, warped by the dense Qi field emanating from their bodies.Diaz wore his classic "zombie face," expression blank, jaw working as he chewed absentmindedly. He stared at Yogan not as if at a man, but as if at an idea—something to be tested, to be eroded.Yogan, by contrast, radiated an unprecedented calm. He felt every beat of his heart, every rush of blood, each cell brimming with power. No more starvation. No more thirst. This time, at this weight, he was a supercar with its tank full of aviation fuel, each piston ready to explode down a straightaway at three hundred kilometers per hour.Herb Dean barked his final question: "Are you ready?! Are you ready?! Go!" Then he retreated like a matador stepping away from two enraged bulls.The opening roar of the audience pierced the roof—then, at once, was drowned by the shock of what they saw next.For years, Yogan had been the patient hunter, a master of the counterattack. His opening minutes were always measured, calculated, a dance of footwork and distance, waiting for a single weakness. But tonight that man had vanished.The instant the fight began, Yogan's feet began to tap lightly on the canvas. Then his entire body pressed forward, an arrow loosed from a bowstring. His stance was wide, oppressive, showing no hint of probing. He was not a hunter tonight. He was a tiger, starved and charging."My God!" Joe Rogan's voice cracked at the commentary table. "Yogan is unusually aggressive! He's pressing forward! This is completely different from the 'Lightning' we know! Not having to cut weight seems to have given him unprecedented confidence!"Diaz blinked. This was not the script. His trademark loose "zombie walk" had barely begun when Yogan entered striking range. Instinct took over. He threw his signature long left hand, that frustrating weapon which had broken so many opponents.But to Yogan, the punch was a sluggish pendulum, a film running at half-speed. He tilted his head a fraction to the right. The fist sliced the air past his ear.Now.As Diaz began retracting his arm, his weight momentarily off-center, Yogan's right hand erupted like a shell fired from a century-old cannon. No wasted motion, no telegraph. A flash of muscle, a bullet through space.Diaz's eyes widened. He could not even track the punch's path. He only felt the overwhelming force as it detonated against his left cheek.Pat!The sound—a muffled crack captured by ringside microphones—slashed through the silence. Diaz's head snapped violently to the right. A faint cracking noise rose from his neck. His expression froze. He stumbled back three, four steps, struggling for balance.The cheers of twenty thousand spectators cut off as if a cord had been yanked. Dead silence. Then a hiss rolled through the stands, like wind before a storm.Less than ten seconds into the round, the man celebrated for iron durability had been rocked by a single punch.Diaz blinked. His left cheek was swelling crimson. He nodded once, more to himself than to anyone, eyes shifting from boredom to ferocity. The animal within had awakened.But Yogan offered no pause, no breath. He advanced again, footwork a blur, clinging to Diaz like a shadow with claws. The reach advantage, the height advantage, the swagger—none of it mattered. Every step Diaz took, Yogan mirrored with impossible speed.Forced backward, Diaz raised his hands, trying to push Yogan off with his classic one-two combination. But to Yogan's eyes the strikes were riddled with flaws, as if Diaz were punching through syrup.As the left hand came, Yogan did not retreat. He dropped low, slumping his torso, letting the punch sail above. In the same motion, his right arm coiled and struck—a short, brutal hook into Diaz's liver, a drill boring through armor.Diaz grunted, the air driven from his lungs. The crowd gasped, the sound swelling again into a rolling thunder. Commentators' voices overlapped—Rogan, Cormier, Anik—each trying to find words for the spectacle of this new Yogan.Still Diaz fought back. He flicked jabs, circled, tried to regain rhythm. But Yogan was everywhere. His footwork was no longer just fast; it was predatory, an unbroken chain of micro-adjustments that left no escape. When Diaz stepped back, Yogan cut the angle. When Diaz pivoted, Yogan slipped inside. It was like watching water carve a canyon in seconds.Another flurry—Diaz's right cross, Yogan's slip, a counter uppercut snapping Diaz's head back. The two men crashed into the fence, elbows flying. The Octagon vibrated from the impact.Every strike Yogan threw was efficient, drilled, but charged with something deeper, a rhythm older than technique. The crowd could feel it, though they could not name it: Guanghan's order broken, the King appearing.By the two-minute mark Diaz's face was a mask of sweat and rising bruises. His breathing had grown heavier, though his eyes still burned. Yogan's chest rose and fell smoothly, the supercar still idling at full throttle.Then came another exchange. Diaz feinted high, swung low. Yogan pivoted off the centerline, shoulder brushing Diaz's arm, and delivered a spinning elbow that cracked across the temple. Gasps rippled through the arena."Diaz is in trouble!" Daniel Cormier shouted into the mic. "Yogan is dismantling him piece by piece!"Inside, Yogan felt time slow. Every motion Diaz made sent ripples across a still pond. Every ripple told a story. He read it, moved before the story ended. It was not arrogance but clarity—the kind of clarity that arrives only when pain, hunger, and sacrifice have burned every doubt away.The third minute began. Diaz tried to clinch, to drag the fight into his world. Yogan slipped under the arms, pivoted, and answered with a knee to the body that echoed like a drum. The referee hovered close, eyes wide.Crowd noise swelled and broke like surf. Some screamed Diaz's name, others Yogan's. Cameras flashed. Commentators stammered metaphors. And still Yogan moved, step after step, like a god pacing an altar.Diaz's corner shouted instructions, but they were drowned by the roar. His punches slowed. His guard sagged. Yogan's eyes sharpened. He saw the line, the opening—the exact seam where this fight could end.He surged forward, fists a blur. Left hook upstairs. Right cross to the jaw. Another left hook to the body. Diaz staggered, knees buckling, arms dropping. The crowd exploded.Yet Yogan did not rush recklessly. Even now he was deliberate, a sculptor striking the final blows at marble. He feinted, drew Diaz's last desperate punch, slipped inside, and unleashed a straight right like a thunderbolt.Time fractured. The sound of the punch cracked like a gunshot. Diaz's head snapped back, sweat spraying in a halo. He stumbled toward the cage, catching himself on the fence, eyes glassy.The bell for the round had not yet rung. But the moment, already, felt mythic.In the stands, people stood on their seats. Some roared, some covered their mouths. Millions watching on screens around the world leaned forward, holding their breath. They were witnessing not just a fight but a transformation—the moment when Guanghan's formation truly broke, when the King appeared not as an idea but in flesh and bone.And in the center of it all, Yogan stood, chest heaving once, twice, gaze steady as the moon.The war had only begun.---