Chapter 46 - Chapter 46: Fist Hard

The bell for the fourth round rang out like a war drum, echoing across the arena. Everyone in attendance felt the sound reverberate through their chests, signaling the beginning of what would soon become Conor McGregor's nightmare. The tension was thick enough to taste; the roar of the crowd subsided into an almost reverent hush, the kind that always precedes history.Yogan moved like a Siberian tiger released into a frozen wilderness—silent, patient, lethal. Each step forward was deliberate, a predator's glide toward a wounded prey. His eyes never left Conor's. No words were spoken, but his intent radiated like cold steel: I'm coming.His attacks had become even more three-dimensional. He no longer confined himself to the low kicks that had demolished Conor's base in the previous rounds. Now he mixed punches with low, middle, and high kicks, switching between front kicks, side kicks, calf kicks, and even spinning back kicks. He flowed from one technique to the next, unpredictable and relentless. Each strike, each feint, was another cut in the tapestry of Conor's defenses.Conor's guard looked like a fortress crumbling under siege. Holes appeared everywhere. Yogan's combinations weren't just strikes—they were questions, and Conor was running out of answers. It was like forcing a student to solve an impossibly complex math problem under a merciless clock. His timing was slipping, his reactions fraying.In the VIP section below the stage, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes wide. "How clever!" he shouted to his friend beside him. "Yogan's fighting IQ is off the charts! He's not just fighting—he's dismantling Conor. This is art!""Yeah," the friend agreed, eyes glued to the cage. "He's completely taken over the tempo. He's about to win.""This is Yogan's show now," another voice chimed in nearby. "I didn't think he could be this powerful. I expected a war, but this is one-sided domination. Unreal!"The debates continued, but one truth was undeniable: Yogan had astonished everyone. The man who had entered the cage as an underdog was now making the octagon his private workshop.---The Breaking PointWith one minute left in the fourth round, the tension reached its peak. Through a series of elegant feints and precise strikes, Yogan drove Conor back toward the cage. Each step Conor took was heavier than the last; his once-proud footwork now sluggish and reactive. He knew he had nowhere left to retreat.Desperation flickered in Conor's emerald eyes. They burned with a suicidal intensity, the last blaze of a cornered animal. He twisted his body violently, almost dislocating his own waist, and launched a ferocious left uppercut—the punch he had built his career upon. It was everything he had left, his last roll of the dice, a counterattack forged from pride and fury.But Yogan had been waiting for this exact moment.The twisting motion left Conor's abdomen wide open, an unprotected fortress gate. Yogan's Godlike Reflexes captured the flaw instantly, like a hawk spotting prey. He didn't flinch. He didn't retreat.Instead of dodging away, Yogan moved in, his torso tilting to the right just enough for the uppercut to miss its mark by a whisper. In the same heartbeat, his right fist fired like a cannonball from a rifled barrel, slamming into Conor's exposed liver at a brutal angle—a strike so precise it seemed rehearsed a thousand times in the gym.The sound wasn't loud. It was a dull, sickening thud, but it silenced the arena as if a cosmic switch had been flipped. Time slowed. Cameras flashed, capturing a moment that would live in highlight reels for years.Conor's expression froze. The wild, desperate fire in his eyes was extinguished instantly, like a candle snuffed by a gust of cold wind. An indescribable pain rippled outward from his core, electric and overwhelming. His nervous system simply shut down. His mind screamed commands, but his body refused to obey.The arm that had been throwing the uppercut hung uselessly in the air. Conor's knees buckled. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Then, like a marionette with its strings cut, he collapsed backward, his long body folding into itself.Conor McGregor—once the king of distance and timing—had fallen. Not from a head shot, but from a liver strike so devastating it was arguably worse than a clean knockout. This was not just defeat. It was a total collapse.---The Finishing Storm"Woooo—!" The arena erupted. Half the crowd screamed in disbelief, the other half in ecstasy. The sea of green Irish flags went still, while a tide of red flames from Chinese fans ignited in a roar.Yogan charged forward. He gave Conor no time to recover, no chance to reset. He dove into the position he knew best—the death-penalty domain of top control.He sat atop Conor like an immovable mountain. Conor's arms flailed weakly, his body writhing under the crushing weight. But Yogan's punches and elbows rained down with mechanical precision—one, then another, then another. Each strike was a hammer blow driving the final nails into the coffin.One punch.One punch more.Another elbow.As victory loomed, Yogan's composure never faltered. Every blow was calm, measured, and deadly. He struck across Conor's cheeks and temples with the same patience he had shown all fight, refusing to devolve into reckless brawling.Images flashed through Yogan's mind like a montage in fast-forward. He saw the oath he had made at the beginning of his rebirth. He saw DC and Khabib pushing him to his limits at the AKA Training Gym. He remembered the sauna sessions, the nights of weight cuts when he'd almost given up. He remembered Conor's arrogant grin at the weigh-ins and the slap that had ignited the fire in his chest.He saw his mother's face in the crowd, pale with worry, and his father's determined gaze. He saw the fans who had supported him, waving his country's flag, believing when no one else did.All the pain. All the pressure. All the sweat. All the expectations. Everything condensed into his right fist.With the last of his strength, Yogan raised his arm and let out an earth-shaking roar. "Ahhhh!"That final punch—a thunderclap of everything he had endured—landed hard. A muffled sound followed. Conor went limp, consciousness fleeing completely.At last, the referee intervened, grabbing Yogan and pulling him back with all his strength, ending the one-sided onslaught. The fight was over.---The Roar of VictoryIn that instant, Yogan felt the chains that had bound him for years shatter. All the repression, the pain, the sacrifices—dissolved into a single, euphoric surge. He rose from Conor's body, spread his arms wide, and roared at the rafters.That roar drowned out everything else. It was primal, unstoppable, and it felt like it could tear the roof off the arena."I won!" he shouted to no one and everyone. "I won! I won, damn it!"DC, Javier, Khabib, and the entire AKA team stormed the Octagon, lifting their hero into the air. The red section of the audience transformed into a boiling sea of color. Countless international students and Chinese expatriates embraced and wept, waving five-star red flags beneath the blinding lights.In the crowd, Yogan's mother buried her face in her husband's shoulder, sobbing tears of pride and relief. His father, a man of iron will, stood red-eyed, looking up at the son who had fulfilled his promise, stroking his wife's back with rough hands.Thousands of miles away, in Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, and countless other cities, sports bars and living rooms erupted in thunderous chants—twelve seconds delayed on television but just as electrifying."We won! We won!""Yogan is amazing!!!"This moment belonged to Yogan.This moment belonged to AKA.This moment belonged to China.The camera zoomed in on Yogan's face—sweat, blood, and tears mixing into one—and caught his smile. It wasn't arrogant. It wasn't smug. It was the quiet smile of a man who had walked through fire and emerged on the other side.---