After several days of sun, sand, and carefree relaxation, the second stop of Yogan's vacation took an unexpected turn.
DC Cormier, the tough and straightforward man from Louisiana, had the blood of a hunter flowing in his veins. He insisted that Yogan and Luke join him on something far removed from the bright lights of the Octagon—an authentic wilderness hunt.
Their destination was the vast, untamed preserve stretching across the border of Nevada and California. It was an unforgiving land of rugged mountains, endless scrub, and echoing silence, a place where survival was dictated by instinct. Led by a seasoned local guide, the three men donned camouflage gear, slung hunting rifles across their shoulders, and set off into the wilderness like warriors of an older time.
As they trudged over uneven ground, their boots crunching against gravel and dry leaves, DC leaned closer to Yogan, lowering his voice to that of an experienced mentor.
"Listen carefully, Yogan," he said, eyes scanning the distant ridge. "This place is much more dangerous than the Octagon. Out here, your opponent won't give you any chance to breathe. You slip up, you don't just lose a fight—you lose everything."
Yogan nodded silently, absorbing the words. Though the Octagon had forged him into a champion, this wild, untamed domain felt like a different kind of proving ground.
Hours later, after trekking across rocky slopes and tracking faint footprints along a narrow trail, they finally spotted their quarry—a robust adult bighorn sheep grazing on a patch of wild grass hundreds of meters away. Its curved horns gleamed faintly under the afternoon sun, a silent symbol of resilience and survival.
DC carefully unslung his rifle, a high-precision Remington 700 sniper rifle polished to perfection, and without hesitation, handed it to Yogan.
"Try it, Champion," DC said with a faint grin. "Let me see if your aim is as sharp as your fists."
Yogan held the weapon, feeling the unexpected weight of cold steel in his hands. This was his first time handling a gun of such power, a tool designed not for sport, but for finality. The chill of the barrel contrasted with the steady warmth of his own pulse.
He raised the rifle, looked through the scope, and locked onto the distant target.
The instant his finger brushed against the trigger, something stirred within him. His innate Godlike Reflexes—the very talent that had defined his rebirth—flared to life.
The world around him slowed to an almost unnatural stillness. He could see the faint swaying of grass, the ripple of wind brushing against the terrain. He could feel, with startling clarity, how the air currents might alter the bullet's trajectory. He predicted the sheep's next subtle movement—the faint twitch of its ear, the slight lift of its head as it prepared to graze again.
Holding his breath, he adjusted minutely, calculating without conscious thought.
And then—
Bang!
The shot rang out, breaking the profound silence of the wilderness.
Far in the distance, the bighorn sheep staggered once, then collapsed instantly. The bullet had struck its vital spot with surgical precision, sparing it from unnecessary suffering.
DC lowered his binoculars, blinking in disbelief. Luke's jaw practically dropped.
"My God…" DC muttered, staring at Yogan as though he were something other than human. "You mean to tell me this is your first time ever touching a rifle? That shot—your marksmanship is sharper than a Marine sniper's!"
Yogan simply smiled, offering the rifle back.
For him, this was more than a hunt. It was another test, another demonstration of how his talents could be applied in unfamiliar domains. And the result satisfied him deeply.
---
The third leg of his vacation carried a different kind of weight—one filled with warmth, sentiment, and a deep sense of responsibility.
As promised, Yogan took a step that meant more to him than any personal luxury. Through the assistance of his trusted ally, David Chen, he formally launched the "Chinese Power Fighting Development Fund." It was a platform designed to support and uplift every aspiring Chinese athlete pursuing their MMA dreams abroad.
To celebrate, Yogan hosted a special family-style dinner at his private villa. The dining room was soon filled with the lively chatter of warriors who shared the same dream. Li Jingliang, Zhang Weili, Song Yadong—names that would later shine brilliantly on the UFC stage—all gathered around his table.
Instead of hiring a chef, Yogan rolled up his sleeves and cooked a sumptuous Chinese feast himself. The aroma of stir-fried vegetables, fragrant spices, and slow-cooked meats filled the air, carrying the essence of home into foreign soil.
At the table, the atmosphere was lighthearted and free of formality. There were no divisions between senior and junior, no airs of hierarchy—only the honest camaraderie of fighters who carried the same passion in their hearts.
"Sheng Ge!" Li Jingliang exclaimed, lifting his wine glass with a bold grin, his Mandarin carrying the unique accent of his hometown. "From now on, you're going to be the leader of our Chinese UFC legion! If anyone dares to bully us in the future, just say the word, and we'll fight right by your side!"
His words, loud and brimming with conviction, drew laughter and nods around the table.
Zhang Weili, quieter by nature, didn't echo with the same volume. Instead, she looked at Yogan with calm, resolute eyes, her voice gentle yet carrying immense sincerity.
"Teacher Yogan… thank you. Without your help, I might still be worrying about whether I could even afford the purse for my next fight."
Yogan shook his head, smiling warmly.
"Don't call me Teacher," he said. "Call me Sheng Ge, or just Yogan. We're all here for the same goal. From this moment on, we're family. If you have any difficulties—whether it's training, medical care, or your daily life—go straight to David Chen. The foundation will take care of everything."
The heartfelt words lingered in the air, strengthening the bond between them.
The following day, Yogan went a step further, renting a luxurious private yacht and inviting his compatriots out to sea.
The Pacific stretched endlessly, its azure waters glimmering under the sun. Gentle breezes brushed against their faces as the group leaned against the yacht's railing, laughing freely, their worries momentarily cast aside.
They fished, shared stories of their struggles, and exchanged techniques. Yogan, drawing upon his training at AKA, spared no knowledge. He demonstrated wrestling defenses for Li Jingliang, explained how Zhang Weili could channel her raw strength to overcome technical gaps, and discussed career development with the young and talented Song Yadong.
In those moments, he wasn't just a reigning champion. He was a pioneer, a mentor, a Dao spreader who carried the responsibility of bringing world-class fighting knowledge back to his people.
More than half a month passed in this rhythm of laughter, warmth, and unshakable camaraderie. But vacations, like tides, must eventually ebb.
When Yogan finally returned alone to his villa on the hilltop of San Jose, overlooking the glittering nightscape of Silicon Valley, the noise of celebration faded into memory.
What replaced it was a deeper quiet—the cold focus of a chess player contemplating his next move.
For Yogan, fighting was not just a profession. It was his passion, his destiny. And to protect that destiny, he had forged another weapon—capital.
That night, inside his study, he opened his multi-encrypted laptop and connected to Pangu Capital's private internal network.
On the screen appeared CEO James Anderson, seated in a Manhattan office, sharp-suited and radiating the efficiency of a Wall Street elite. His voice carried a barely concealed excitement.
"Boss," Anderson began, "our first-quarter performance report is out. Following your earlier strategic layout, our investments in sectors like new energy and biotechnology have produced remarkable returns. From an initial capital of 300 million dollars, after deducting all operating costs, our net profit has already surpassed 80 million."
He paused, his tone shifting toward awe.
"To be honest, this return rate is unprecedented. Wall Street is buzzing, trying to figure out who the mysterious boss behind Pangu Capital is."
Yogan listened calmly. To him, this was merely the product of foresight—using his rebirth memories to identify era-defining trends before they happened. Yet he also knew that too much success, too quickly, was like blood in the water to the sharks of finance.
"I understand," Yogan said evenly. "In the next phase, slow down. Our objective is long-term strategic planning, not becoming the brightest star on Wall Street."
Anderson immediately nodded. "I understand, Boss."
Before ending the call, Yogan deliberately issued a few misleading instructions, planting false trails to protect his true intentions.
When he finally closed the laptop with a sharp click, the sound echoed in the quiet study like the drawing of a line—separating the world of billion-dollar capital flows from the sanctuary of his private life.
He knew he had nothing to prove in finance. Pangu Capital was simply a tool, a shield.
With this arsenal, he could focus on what truly mattered: the Octagon.
Standing by the window, Yogan gazed at the sea of lights stretching across Silicon Valley. Somewhere beyond those glittering towers, real sharks were already circling, sensing his presence. But none of that mattered.
Because his mind, his body, his very soul—were already returning to the cage, where destiny awaited.