Chapter 45 - Chapter 45 – Textbook-Level Tactics

A cold glint flashed in Yogan's eyes.That last, decisive low kick wasn't just a strike; it was a signal.His hunt had officially entered its second phase.From that instant he became the coldest, most unfeeling surgeon imaginable—methodical, precise, repeating the same tedious but deadly motions he had drilled a thousand times.Step, angle off, draw Conor forward, dodge, control distance.Then, whenever the Irishman's center of gravity slipped for even half a heartbeat, Yogan's right leg would scythe down like a battle-axe—low kick, no hesitation, no mercy.Same sound again.Another thunderous low kick smacked into the same tender spot.Conor's left leg trembled violently; he almost lost his balance.For a moment his proud face contorted with a flash of pain he couldn't hide.Snap—one more.Each kick was a drumbeat of war, landing on Conor's calf and at the same time on the hearts of every spectator in the arena.The terrible redness and swelling on the Irishman's shin spread visibly, like a dark tide moving under his skin.Down in the stands the green-clad Irish supporters began to fall silent.The cocky smiles that had danced on their faces slowly faded, replaced by unease.The agile footwork of their "Notorious" king looked as though it were being eroded strike by strike, second by second.By contrast the red section of Chinese fans was exploding."Kick his leg! Kick his leg!""Well done, Yogan! Crush him!"The chant rolled like surf across the stadium.By the end of the second round Conor's left leg looked grotesquely swollen.As he limped back to his corner there was a slight but unmistakable hitch in his gait.The game plan had worked.The success of the strategy lifted Yogan's confidence to an unprecedented level, yet inside he remained as calm as a frozen lake.He remembered Javier's roar in training camp, and the mistakes he himself had made when he fought Diamond: pride and anger were shortcuts to failure.He would not repeat them.Third Round – A Dangerous Chess MatchThe third round began.Conor's team clearly understood how serious the problem was.They ordered a change of tactics: no more wild early flurries.Now the Irishman would use his intimidating reach advantage and his Divine-Rank sense of distance—an ability far beyond any other fighter in the weight class—to try to disrupt Yogan's rhythm with his trademark left straight.Inside the Octagon the fight entered its most dangerous, most frustrating phase: stalemate.Two predators circling.They looked like gunfighters in a dusty Western street, each waiting for the other to blink first.Conor crouched like a sniper, ready to pull the trigger the instant he read an opening.Every time Yogan edged closer he risked being picked off by a millimeter-precise strike.And whenever he did launch a kick, Conor's cobra-fast left hand lashed out, forcing him to retreat or block before the blow could land.Joe Rogan's excited voice boomed from the commentary booth:"This is the skill Conor relies on to survive! That sense of distance is a gift from God—he's forcing Yogan's low-kick strategy into a corner. Yogan just can't get in clean!"Time flowed like water, the tension in the arena thick enough to taste.Halfway through the round Yogan appeared to lose patience.He stepped in and fired a cannonball low kick.Conor had been waiting.He slid forward, his torso collapsing, and his lightning-fast left hand—like a precision-guided missile—speared straight at Yogan's face.A pre-emption.He had predicted the timing and meant to destroy Yogan's rhythm completely.The Irish fans gasped, already picturing a knockout.But Yogan was predicting Conor's future too.That reckless low kick had been a trap.His right leg, which looked as though it were committed, suddenly retracted mid-air, changing from a kick to a push.As his toes brushed the canvas he shifted his weight back half a step, moving like drifting willow blossoms.A deadly left punch skimmed past his nose, the air from the strike so sharp it seemed to stop the blood on his face.At the same instant Yogan's right hand snapped upward like a snake, using the recoil of his backward lean to launch a cunning uppercut that ripped from bottom to top, smashing into Conor's chin through the narrowest of gaps.Pop!A sound like a champagne cork—but it was the sound of a skull snapping backward.Conor's head whipped back, sweat and blood spraying under the lights in a tragic, glittering halo.The punch landed with terrible force.His eyes went unfocused, his footwork wobbled, and that vaunted sense of distance vanished in an instant.Opportunity.A huge opportunity.A deafening roar rolled from the stands.DC and Javier leapt up at cageside, fists pumping, almost climbing onto the apron in excitement.For a heartbeat the urge to finish rose like fire in Yogan's chest.But he crushed it with iron will."Calm down," he muttered to himself. "Drag him into deep water. Rounds four and five. Make him pay for his stamina."Instead of charging headlong he latched on to Conor like a stubborn parasite, pressing the reeling Irishman against the fence with his powerful frame.No wild hooks, no reckless knees.He chose the most effective, most torturous tools: grinding clinch work, shoulder strikes, and stabbing knees to the body—each blow systematically eroding Conor's stamina and will.Same motion again.A brutal knee strike speared Conor's stomach.The Irishman groaned, twisting to shield his ribs.Bang! Bang! Two short, snapping shoulder bumps crashed into his jaw, breaking his posture and robbing him of breath."Domination! Perfect cage control!" Joe Rogan's voice trembled with admiration."Yogan smelled blood but didn't turn into a reckless shark—he became a patient python, suffocating his prey. This is textbook-level tactics!"Conor writhed but could do nothing.His proud boxing looked helpless at this range.He struggled frantically yet under Yogan's vice-like control all his efforts were futile.End of the Round – The Tide TurnsAt last the bell clanged for the end of the third round.The referee pried them apart.Conor staggered back to his stool, chest heaving, his face pale, eyes wild, as if someone had drained the life from him.His swagger was gone.In the opposite corner Yogan sat down to a satisfied nod from Javier."That's it, Yogan! Beautifully done!"Javier wiped sweat from his fighter's face."He's about to collapse. His stamina's at the limit. In round four keep the same pressure—but be careful. A cornered lion is still dangerous. Don't give him even a breath."Yogan nodded slowly.He could feel the scales of victory tilting fully to his side.---Narrative Expansion to ~2 000 wordsOver the next several paragraphs of the chapter, the camera (and the reader) stays tight on the fighters and their corners, showing how both sides prepare for the championship rounds.The Irish corner is frantic. Conor's coach presses ice against the grotesque swelling on his calf, shouting at him to breathe, to control his temper, to remember the game plan. But Conor is past listening; fury burns in his eyes and he mutters that he'll "kill him right now." His hands tremble as he tries to stretch his left leg. Every movement is a reminder of the axe-kicks he's absorbed.Across the cage Javier leans close to Yogan's ear. "He's gassed. Keep dragging him deeper. Make him shoot first. Don't stand at mid-range; force him to clinch. The moment he plants that front foot, you chop it again."DC Cormier, practically vibrating with excitement, adds: "I just watched his breathing. He's sucking air. Round four and five are ours—if we stay smart. Yogan, drown him!"The crowd senses the momentum shift. The green flags have gone quiet. In the red section the Chinese fans chant in a rolling thunder of Mandarin and English: "YO-GAN! YO-GAN!" The chant echoes off the rafters like a drumline.Meanwhile Bruce Buffer prowls the outside of the cage, hyping the crowd with his microphone even between rounds. Camera flashes pop from every angle; social media feeds explode with clips of the uppercut, slow-motion replays of sweat and blood spraying from Conor's jaw. Analysts on television call it "a momentum-swinging masterstroke" and "a clinic in composure under fire."Inside his own head Yogan is silent. He inhales, exhales, feeling his heartbeat slow, visualizing the next exchange. He pictures the fourth round not as a brawl but as a drawn-out execution—each breath a step closer to victory.The horn sounds. Ten seconds to go. Vaseline smeared on brows, water spat onto the canvas. Both men rise.Round four looms.The crowd is a living thing now, half roar, half anticipation. It knows it is watching not just a fight but a tactical masterclass. Clips will be taught in gyms and discussed in podcasts for years: how a young fighter with "Godlike Reflexes" refused to let his ego rule, how he dissected a superstar under the brightest lights.And as the fighters walk back toward the center of the cage—one limping, one gliding—the commentators' voices swell again, framing the narrative for the billions watching worldwide:"Ladies and gentlemen," Joe Rogan says into the microphone, "this is how legends are made. Yogan isn't just fighting Conor McGregor tonight; he's rewriting the textbook."---