The locker room was still buzzing with adrenaline when one of the assistant strength and conditioning coaches suddenly shouted, his voice cracking with disbelief.
"Whoa! Isabella! You… you bet half a million dollars? And you bet on Yogan to score a first-round knockout?!"
Isabella lifted her chin with effortless elegance, as though such a thing were perfectly ordinary. "I simply have confidence in my client," she replied. "Besides, the odds for a first-round KO were 4.5 to 1. So after deducting the handling fees… my personal income this time should be about… 2.25 million US dollars."
"Holy shit!"
Dr. Phil dug his phone out of his pocket, waving it like a winning lottery ticket. "I won too! I put down a hundred thousand. I only bet on Yogan to win, so my payout wasn't as crazy as yours—but I still made more than forty thousand! Drinks, food, cabs, everything in New York tonight is on me!"
Within moments, the entire locker room transformed into a chaotic, excited "betting slip sharing party."
Coach Javier proudly displayed screenshots.
Roach pretended to act humble while subtly zooming in on his payout.
Even Garcia—normally the most collected and calm member of the staff—revealed that he too had placed a wager.
None of them did it out of greed. The bets came from something far deeper—absolute, unwavering faith in their fighter. Their confidence in Yogan bordered on blind devotion. And tonight, their belief had been rewarded in the most spectacular fashion.
They laughed, compared winnings, and joked about how they should start calling themselves the most profitable coaching team in UFC history. Their grins were genuine—wide, unrestrained, and infectious. It was the kind of joy that only came from being part of something that felt larger than life.
Their celebration was interrupted only when a UFC staff member knocked on the door, reminding them that the post-fight press conference was about to begin.
---
The Press Conference
After a quick change of clothes, Yogan emerged wearing a clean tracksuit, the gold championship belt wrapped securely around his waist. The faint redness across his cheekbones from absorbing strikes served as proof of the battle he had just endured. He walked with a composed confidence, every step radiating the aura of a reigning king.
He took his seat at the center of the stage. To his left sat Dana White, who looked like a man who had just discovered a diamond mine. His smile was practically glued to his face.
The moment the microphones switched on, the reporters erupted like a pack of starving wolves. But Yogan remained calm, poised, grounded, and regal.
The first reporter fired a question enthusiastically.
"Yogan, congratulations on defending your title again! That spinning elbow knockout was absolutely stunning. Was it part of a tactical pre-fight plan, or was it an instinctive improvisation during the match?"
Yogan lifted the microphone, his tone steady and composed.
"Our team spent a long time analyzing all of Tony's fights. We knew he tends to gamble on high-risk moves when he's cornered or behind. In training, we practiced countless defensive and counter scenarios specifically against spinning attacks. But during the fight, it was Tony's relentless warrior spirit that brought out the strongest version of me. So this KO was both the result of scientific preparation and also a tribute to him—as a true martial artist."
The response was flawless—professional, respectful, humble, and intelligent. The audience nodded in approval, acknowledging his grace.
But the next question carried a different tone.
A reporter from Ireland leaned toward his microphone, clearly intending to stir controversy.
"Yogan, did Conor McGregor's withdrawal make you feel that the value of this title defense was diminished? What would you like to say to him now?"
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Yogan's eyes hardened, his expression sharpening into ice.
"Value?" he repeated, his voice low. "I defeated the undisputed number-one contender—the man with an eight-fight winning streak—someone who actually earned his place in this division. As for the person you mentioned, he didn't even have the qualification to stand on the weigh-in stage. I have nothing to say to him. The law will give him the judgment he deserves. I just hope that this great sport will have fewer people like him tarnishing it."
The Irish reporter's face flushed red, his mouth opening and closing without sound. No one defended him.
Another reporter quickly tried to redirect the moment.
"Yogan, are you really committed to moving up in weight to challenge Tyron Woodley for another title?"
Before Yogan could answer, Dana White lunged forward and snatched the microphone like an excited child.
"That's right! You heard that correctly!" he boomed. "Yogan's next objective is to become the first legend in UFC history to simultaneously hold three championship belts in three divisions! We are already in contact with Woodley's team. Believe me—this will be the biggest and most anticipated superfight in UFC history. And it will happen!"
The room detonated. Reporters shot to their feet. Cameras clicked wildly. Headlines practically wrote themselves.
The press conference had reached its explosive climax.
---
The Next Morning
As sunlight spilled down the glass towers of Manhattan, data from UFC 205 began rolling in across major sports networks.
According to preliminary information released by North American Sports Television Network, the PPV numbers reached 1.55 million buys—just shy of the 1.6 million projection when Conor had originally been scheduled, but still enough to make history.
It was undeniable proof:
Yogan could now carry a pay-per-view entirely on his own.
He no longer needed anyone's name beside his to boost numbers.
He was the draw.
He was the storm.
He was the era.
Ticket revenue also shattered previous records, reaching 17.7 million dollars at Madison Square Garden.
Social media was no different—hashtags like: #YoganKO,
#TheBoogeymanFalls,
#NewUFCKing,
dominated global trending lists for twelve straight hours.
The world was finally acknowledging what his team already knew:
A new age had arrived, and it belonged to Yogan.
---
Return to San Jose
After two days of media appearances, business engagements, and celebratory obligations, Yogan and his team boarded a private jet back to San Jose, California.
The exhaustion finally caught up to him. Both his body and mind felt worn—like steel hammered thin. He knew that the upcoming challenge against Woodley would be even more demanding. He would need rest, recalibration, and renewed fire.
Just as he closed his eyes to breathe, his private phone began to ring.
He looked at the screen—and immediately straightened.
It was a number from China.
A number belonging to someone legendary.
When he answered, a familiar lively voice burst through the speaker.
"Yogan! Congratulations on another victory! I watched the fight—it was incredible! You were unbelievable! You're the pride of all of us Chinese now!"
Yogan laughed. "With this strength, even if I wanted to lose, I probably couldn't!"
Jackie Chan roared with laughter.
After exchanging lighthearted banter, Jackie's tone shifted.
"By the way, I won't keep you too long since you need to rest. Remember that movie I told you about—the one based on your story? The script is finished, and filming begins next month in Los Angeles. When do you think you'll be available?"
Excitement surged through Yogan's chest.
For someone who grew up watching Hong Kong action cinema, working with Jackie Chan was a childhood dream.
"Big Brother, thank you for thinking of me. But… could you send me the script first so I can read it? I'm not a trained actor, so I need to see if I can handle the role."
"Hahaha! You're a steady kid!" Jackie replied, clearly pleased. "No problem! I'll have my assistant email it to you right away. Read it, rest well, and we'll talk soon. I know how championship fights feel—like shedding a layer of skin!"
The call ended, leaving Yo
gan staring at his phone, a smile tugging at his lips.
Another battlefield.
Another challenge.
Another evolution.
And he was ready.
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