Returning to his private mountaintop villa, Yogan politely declined his team members' enthusiastic suggestion for a grand victory celebration.
Right now, he had no interest in champagne, loud music, or forced laughter.
All he wanted was silence.
Months of extreme training, muscle abuse, psychological pressure, tactical sparring, and weight management had stretched his nerves tighter than steel cables. Now that the battle was finally over, he could feel every fiber of his body begging for rest. His mind also needed distance from the Octagon, cheering crowds, glaring lights, and the suffocating expectations placed on his shoulders.
The moment the doors of the villa shut behind him, the world outside ceased to exist.
For the next few days, Yogan lived like a man who had returned from war.
He woke naturally every morning without alarms or schedules. Instead of strict dieting and tasteless meals designed to maintain weight ratios, his nutrition team prepared delicious recovery food specially tailored to repair muscle damage and restore energy. Fresh smoothies, soft steaks, hot soups, vitamins, and perfectly balanced carbohydrates were no longer luxuries but necessities.
To a professional fighter, relaxation after a battle was not indulgence.
It was medicine.
Most of his time was spent submerged in the heated swimming pool behind the villa, letting the warm water release the tension embedded deep within his muscles. At other times, he lay quietly on a terrace lounge chair while the California sunshine poured over his exhausted body, drying the sweat and fear of the battlefield from his skin.
In the world of elite fighters, post-match recovery was just as important as training.
No matter how talented an athlete was, if recovery was neglected, the body would rot from the inside like rusted metal.
This was not "rest" in the ordinary sense of sleep and relaxation. It was a carefully calculated process involving muscle therapy, metabolism stimulation, blood circulation management, nerve repair, and psychological decompression.
That afternoon, Isabella personally brought a famous physical therapist to the villa.
She was well-known not only in Hollywood but also among top-tier athletes.
Her name was Anya—a Russian-American woman with sharp blue eyes, long blonde hair tied neatly behind her head, and an aura that blended professionalism and charm seamlessly. Dressed in a crisp white therapist's uniform, she carried herself with confidence and calm.
The villa's therapy room was already prepared.
Soft instrumental music drifted through the room like flowing water, while faint essential oils scented the air. The lighting was warm and indirect, and the temperature was perfectly controlled.
Yogan lay face-down on the massage bed, stripped to the waist.
The moment Anya's hands touched his skin, he instantly understood why she was famous.
She wasn't like ordinary masseuses who only worked on the surface.
Every movement was deliberate.
Her fingertips seemed to "see" beneath his skin, identifying muscle knots, nerve clusters, scar tissue, and inflamed areas that had formed from years of brutal competition. She used a specialized technique combining pressure therapy, fascia stretching, and deep muscle manipulation.
Her hands pressed, kneaded, twisted, and released.
As her palms and fingers worked their way from his shoulders down his spine, Yogan could feel every muscle gradually unlocking from its frozen state. Tension melted under her touch like wax under flame.
The soreness was painful.
But it was good pain.
It was the kind of pain that healed.
Soon, warmth flowed through his limbs like liquid fire, washing away fatigue accumulated across years of fighting. His stiff neck loosened. His aching lower back softened. Even his calves, which constantly suffered from overtraining, began breathing again.
Yogan couldn't help letting out a low sigh of relief.
It was the kind of sound a man makes when exhaustion finally releases its grip.
Anya maintained a neutral expression throughout the session. Her professionalism was flawless. Even when she encountered injuries that would make some therapists panic—fractured micro-tissue, tight nerve endings, or hardened muscle plates—she remained calm and controlled.
However, as the massage continued, something… changed.
Deep inside Yogan's body, a long-forgotten sensation stirred.
As a top-level combat sports athlete, he had lived under a silent rule for years:
Celibacy before matches.
To outsiders, this might sound old-fashioned, even ridiculous.
But to elite fighters, it was science.
Solid, proven, undeniable science.
Years ago, Dr. Phil, Saint Team's leading physical trainer, once sat Yogan down and explained everything to him using bloodwork data and endocrine charts.
Firstly, sexual activity depleted glycogen levels.
That meant weaker stamina.
Secondly—and more crucially—it directly impacted endocrine balance.
After sexual release, prolactin levels rise sharply.
This hormone creates emotional comfort, relaxation, and contentment.
Which is poison for a predator.
Testosterone, on the other hand, fuels aggression, dominance, and raw strength.
A fighter heading into the Octagon didn't need peace.
He needed a storm inside his veins.
To maintain peak performance, the body must remain in a state of accumulation, not release.
Thus, celibacy was not superstition.
It was strategy.
It was discipline.
It was sacrifice.
For years, Yogan had lived like a monk with fists made of iron.
His desires were caged.
Locked.
Buried.
His body had become a volcano sealed with steel.
But today…
Anya's fingers brushed past the curve of his waist.
Her forearm accidentally touched the inside of his thigh.
The heat in the room suddenly felt heavier.
The faint scent of essential oil blended with subtle feminine perfume.
His entire nervous system sparked.
Something primal awakened.
A heat surged upward from deep within his body without permission.
Yogan's muscles stiffened.
His face remained calm.
But inside, chaos erupted.
"Oh no…"
He buried his face deeper into the pillow, thankful that he lay face-down.
Anya paused.
Just slightly.
Not dramatically. Not awkwardly.
Only enough for a master to acknowledge a subtle shift.
She didn't react.
Didn't comment.
Didn't judge.
Instead, she adjusted her technique and deliberately avoided sensitive areas, seamlessly resuming her professional rhythm.
But the air had changed.
Invisible tension lingered quietly between them.
Professional.
Controlled.
Yet undeniably human.
That night, Yogan dreamed.
The dream wasn't violent.
There was no blood.
No Octagon.
No crowd.
He found himself inside a misty town deep in Jiangnan.
Rain fell gently, tapping against rooftops like whispered poetry. He stood beneath an oil-paper umbrella, dressed in ancient robes, walking slowly along a blue-stone road.
A stone bridge lay ahead.
And at its end stood a woman.
She wore white robes that glowed softly in the rain.
Elegant.
Floating.
Unreal.
Her eyes were as calm as still water, and her lips curved into a silent smile.
She said nothing.
Only looked at him.
Yogan walked closer, step by step, heart pounding fiercely.
It felt like destiny.
Like recognition.
Like memory.
Just as he was about to see her face clearly…
The dream shattered.
Yogan woke suddenly, sunlight cutting through the blinds.
For a moment, he lay motionless.
His heartbeat slowly returned to normal.
Reality settled in.
He gave a helpless smile.
Ever since entering professional combat sports, his life had been consumed by violence, victory, and survival.
Romance had faded like a forgotten book.
Desire had been locked in an iron box.
Now it was knocking.
Quietly.
Relentlessly.
He stood up, took a long cold shower, and allowed the icy water to crush his uninvited thoughts back into silence.
The mind obeyed.
Eventually.
After dressing, he prepared himself a cup of coffee and entered his study.
A script sat on his desk.
It had been sent by the assistant of Big Brother Jackie Chan.
The title alone was inspiring:
Dragon's Roar
Yogan read carefully.
Page by page.
For an entire hour, he didn't move.
After finishing, he frowned.
The script wasn't bad.
Not at all.
The story followed a poor boy from China who climbed from street fights to the global UFC stage through sheer willpower and talent. It faithfully adapted many of Yogan's actual matches.
The message was righteous.
Clean.
Uplifting.
Perfect.
But that was also the problem.
It read like a documentary.
Not a movie.
More patriotic than dramatic.
More moral lesson than emotional explosion.
It would succeed in China.
No doubt.
But in the international market?
It would be "acceptable."
Not legendary.
And Yogan didn't aim for "acceptable."
He wanted dominance.
He wanted shock.
He wanted impact.
Hollywood wasn't conquered with biography.
It was conquered with myth.
The world didn't fall in love with protagonists because they were flawless.
They fell in love because they were dangerous.
Broken.
Powerful.
Unforgettable.
He leaned back in his chair.
What he wanted wasn't a movie.
He wanted a weapon.
A cultural weapon.
A story so fierce it punched through language barriers.
A character so magnetic it seized foreign hearts.
A film that would hit Hollywood—
Like a nuclear bomb.
more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)