His eyes, slightly clouded by Parkinson's disease, suddenly shone with an unprecedented light.
"My God…" he murmured in disbelief, his voice trembling. "Your reaction speed, your sense of distance… I've only ever seen something like this in Ali during his prime! No, you're even faster than him!"
Faced with Yogan's sincerity and the terrifying, almost inhuman talent he had just witnessed, Roach didn't hesitate for long. He gladly accepted Yogan's request to become his personal boxing technique consultant, signing a sky-high consulting contract. From that day forward, Roach would focus entirely on refining every intricate detail of Yogan's offensive and defensive boxing.
With the standing game now in capable hands, Yogan turned his attention to the ground—an area he knew would determine whether he could truly dominate the octagon.
He spared no expense, flying in the five-time IBJJF World Champion, the legendary "Jiu-Jitsu Wizard" Marcelo Garcia, from Rio de Janeiro. Garcia, hailed as the "God of Jiu-Jitsu," agreed to be Yogan's full-time grappling sparring partner.
This Jiu-Jitsu grandmaster, famous for his unpredictable guillotine choke and his self-created X-Guard technique, shared his lifetime of experience without reservation. Together, they forged a ground-defense system so tight and adaptive that even the best NCAA wrestlers would struggle to break through it.
In addition to Roach and Garcia, Yogan's "Saint Team" continued to grow. He recruited top experts in physical conditioning, nutrition, psychology, and public relations—a collection of specialists so luxurious that it reached a level of extravagance unprecedented not only in UFC history, but in all of professional sports.
The MMA world was stunned. No fighter had ever assembled such a team around themselves. Yogan wasn't just training—he was building an empire.
Yet despite his relentless pursuit of self-improvement, Yogan didn't forget his compatriots who were also training at AKA.
He frequently spent his spare time sharing what he had learned from Dr. Phil, Roach, and Garcia—passing on advanced conditioning methods and intricate striking-grappling transitions to his fellow Chinese fighters Zhang Weili and Song Yadong.
He personally held mitts for Zhang Weili, helping her add subtle head movement and sharp counter-attacks to her already devastating striking. He advised her to channel her explosive power into cage control and ground-and-pound, showing her how to balance her offense with defense—how to dictate the fight rather than chase it. His insight lit a clear path toward her future championship glory.
For Song Yadong, Yogan became a sparring partner, mentor, and brother-in-arms. He sparred with him endlessly, teaching the younger fighter how to combine predictive footwork with pinpoint counter-punches.
"Your speed and explosiveness are incredible," Yogan told him between rounds, sweat dripping down his face. "But you need a calm mind. Learn to find that moment of stillness in the storm—and your fists will become truly deadly."
Under Yogan's guidance, the young "Kung Fu Monkey" evolved rapidly. His boxing became sharper, his timing more precise, his patience more refined.
While Yogan continued training and sharing his wisdom, the global MMA scene was once again shaken by a thunderous change.
At UFC 201, held in Atlanta, the main event featured a Welterweight Championship clash between Tyron "The Chosen One" Woodley and the reigning champion, Robbie "Ruthless" Lawler.
Barely two minutes into the fight, Woodley feinted, stepped forward, and unleashed a thunderous right hand. It landed flush on Lawler's chin—sending the champion, famed for his toughness, crashing to the canvas. The crowd erupted. A new king was crowned.
Emotional and breathless, Woodley clutched the gold belt during his post-fight Octagon interview. But instead of calling out any contender from his own division, he did something no one expected—he aimed his words straight at Yogan, who was watching from his San Jose villa.
"Yogan!" Woodley roared, his voice booming through the mic. "Congrats on being a double champ! Everyone says you're the pound-for-pound number one! But let's be real—your striking is strong, sure. But you've never faced a top-tier NCAA Division I wrestler like me inside the Octagon!"
The crowd roared louder as he continued, adrenaline blazing in his eyes.
"Your fancy footwork? Useless under my pressure! I'll run you over like a truck! At 170 pounds, just having fast hands isn't enough. I'll make sure you can't even stand! If you've got the guts—come get it!"
The arena exploded into chants, fans on their feet, phones flashing. It was pure chaos—a declaration of war.
Meanwhile, Yogan sat back on his couch, watching the broadcast with calm eyes and a faint, confident smile. Without a word, he picked up his phone and sent a message to Isabella, his trusted assistant.
Minutes later, Yogan's official social media account lit up with a new post.
The post featured a black-and-white photo of Woodley triumphantly raising the gold belt. But across the image, written in blood-red letters, were the words:
> "Congratulations, Mr. Temporary Custodian. Please polish my belt and enjoy sleeping with it for a few more days. Because soon, I'll be coming to take it back—and teach you what real standing means."
The internet exploded.
Within minutes, every MMA forum, sports channel, and news outlet was ablaze with heated discussions. Yogan had done it again—he'd turned his words into a weapon sharper than any punch. The fighting world erupted into chaos, the air charged with excitement and animosity alike.
Woodley's fans called Yogan arrogant. Yogan's fans hailed him as a god of confidence. Reporters scrambled for interviews. Hashtags trended worldwide.
The "temporary custodian" line went viral, quoted, memed, and replayed endlessly. Even casual sports fans couldn't ignore the tension.
It seemed inevitable—a fight between the double champion and the newly crowned welterweight king. The MMA world held its breath, waiting for the UFC to announce what could become the biggest event in combat sports history.
But behind the scenes, Dana White, ever the shrewd businessman, had other plans.
He knew that a rematch between Yogan and Conor would be a nuclear-level spectacle—one that could bring in record-breaking pay-per-view numbers. He wasn't ready to risk his biggest star stepping into the unpredictable waters of the welterweight division just yet.
If Yogan lost to Woodley, the company's golden goose—their most marketable fighter—would fall. The risk was too great.
So, through interviews and quiet behind-the-scenes conversations, Dana began to steer public attention toward another narrative.
He hinted that Yogan should first "settle the unfinished business" in the Featherweight and Lightweight divisions. The world, he said, still wanted to see the true conclusion to Yogan vs. Conor—the rivalry that had defined an era.
It was, of course, a tactical move. The UFC would milk every ounce of hype before letting their superstar climb higher.
A complex game of chess had begun behind the curtains.
Top challengers in two divisions watched from the sidelines. Promoters whispered. Journalists speculated. And in the center of it all sat Yogan—the man whose very choices dictated the sport's future.
He knew exactly what Dana White was doing. He understood the politics, the business, the fear behind the matchmaking. But Yogan also knew something else—no matter what they plotted, he was the one who now set the rules of the game.
Sitting in his San Jose villa, phone still in hand, Yogan looked out through the tall glass windows. The California sunset burned red across the horizon, reflecting off the trophies and medals that filled his training hall.
He smiled again—not with arrogance, but with certainty.
He had balanced everything—skill, fame, strategy, and power.
And he knew that soon, when the time was right, the cage door would close once again.
And this time, he would not only defend his legacy—
He would rewrite the very definition of greatness.