However, Yogan was even faster than him!
The moment Conor pushed the security guards aside, Yogan darted forward, his right hand shooting out like lightning—not to punch, but to push with all his might straight into Conor's chest!
"Bang!"
A dull thud echoed across the Octagon.
Conor McGregor's elaborately dressed body jerked backward, as if struck by a speeding truck. He lost all balance and crashed heavily onto the ground, limbs flailing in disarray.
Yogan stood tall, looking down at him with cold, unblinking eyes—like a deity gazing upon an insect.
"Scram."
That one word, sharp and simple, carried a weight that silenced the world.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Inside the Octagon, even the burly security guards who had been wrestling with Conor moments earlier froze mid-motion, their eyes wide with disbelief.
Conor McGregor, sitting stunned on the canvas, looked utterly lost. His face, red with fury a moment ago, drained of color before flushing a sickly crimson.
Humiliation.
A raw, bone-deep humiliation that scorched his pride.
He—the "Notorious" Conor McGregor, Ireland's hero, the face of the UFC—had been thrown down like a drunken fool before millions watching worldwide.
And the man who had done it looked at him as though he were nothing more than dirt beneath his shoes.
"AHHHHHHH!!!"
A hoarse, animalistic scream tore from Conor's throat.
He didn't even try to stand. Like a maddened beast, he crawled forward on all fours, clawing at the ground as he lunged toward Yogan's legs, desperate to attack.
But Yogan merely took a cold, casual step backward, easily dodging the pathetic lunge.
Seeing this, DC Cormier and Luke Rockhold could no longer hold themselves back.
Like two furious grizzlies, they stormed forward from opposite sides, each grabbing hold of Conor and hauling him upright.
"Enough! You clown!" Luke barked, disgust twisting his face. With one strong arm, he wrenched Conor's arm behind his back.
"This isn't your damn playground!" DC thundered, wrapping his massive arm around Conor's neck and dragging him away like a misbehaving child.
"Let me go! Let me go! I'll kill him! I'll kill him!" Conor roared, his expensive white Versace suit now wrinkled, torn, and stained. The once-flashy outfit hung off him like a tattered rag, his image as the "Notorious" shattered beyond repair.
The UFC Director of Security, a mountain of a man built like Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, rushed into the Octagon with a squad of guards. Without hesitation, they surrounded Conor, forcibly restraining and dragging him toward the exit as he continued to thrash and curse.
In the end, he was carried out of the Octagon like a dead pig, his voice echoing faintly through the arena before vanishing behind the curtains.
And just like that, the chaos ended.
Inside the Octagon, calm returned—
the calm belonging only to the victor.
But everyone watching knew this was no end.
It was the beginning of something far greater.
A feud had been born tonight—one that could never be resolved peacefully.
Between Yogan and Conor McGregor, there was no turning back. Their next meeting would be nothing less than a war.
The live broadcast camera cut back to Yogan.
Commentator Joe Rogan, his voice still trembling from the adrenaline of what had just happened, finally found his words again.
"Yogan! Oh my god, I can't believe what we just witnessed! You didn't just win—you dominated this fight in a way I've never seen before!"
He thrust the microphone toward Yogan.
Yogan took it, but didn't speak right away. Instead, he lifted his head and swept his gaze across the arena.
Tens of thousands of spectators, both local and international, fell silent as his eyes passed over them. That gaze—sharp, cold, and commanding—seemed to reach into every corner of the stadium.
The air grew heavy. The silence, absolute.
Then, Yogan's steady voice rang through the sound system.
"Las Vegas…"
He paused for a beat.
"I'm back."
Those simple words hit like a thunderclap. The arena exploded. Tens of thousands roared in unison, a sea of red lights and waving flags filling the stands.
But Yogan wasn't finished.
He raised his voice, cutting through the noise like a blade.
"But!"
The crowd quieted once again.
"I'm not back to pick up other people's trash," he said coldly. "I'm not here to play childish games with a clown who only knows how to bark."
"I came back… to conquer."
His tone grew heavier, his voice resonant, every word slamming into the hearts of everyone present.
"Featherweight—I've already proven myself as the undisputed king."
"Lightweight—tonight, I've claimed that crown too."
He turned slowly, eyes locking onto the VIP section near the cage.
Sitting there were two familiar faces—UFC legends.
"Ruthless" Robbie Lawler, the reigning Welterweight Champion.
And not far from him, his challenger—"The Chosen One" Tyron Woodley, set to face Lawler for the title at UFC 201.
Their eyes met Yogan's, and both men's expressions instantly hardened.
In that moment, they didn't see a fighter—they saw a predator.
A hungry tiger that had already devoured two kings and now set its sights on the next throne.
"So, Robbie Lawler! Tyron Woodley!" Yogan's voice boomed, his tone sharp with challenge.
"I don't care which one of you wins that little championship fight next month."
"Because when it's over—whoever holds that belt…"
His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl.
"…will be my next prey."
Gasps rippled through the audience.
Yogan lifted his chin, his voice rising once more, powerful and unyielding.
"I will move up to 170 pounds, take that title, and become the first—no, the only—fighter in the history of combat sports to hold three championship titles simultaneously!"
The crowd went wild. It was madness—cheers, screams, chants, a deafening storm of sound that shook the arena to its core.
But Yogan wasn't done.
He raised the microphone again, his voice thundering through the chaos, like a decree from a throne.
"All of you! Featherweights, Lightweights, Welterweights!"
"Every single one of you who calls yourself a champion, a contender, or a future star—listen carefully!"
"None of you are my opponents."
"I didn't come here to compete for something small—I came to take everything that belongs to me!"
His words hit like hammer blows. The crowd was no longer just cheering—they were roaring, possessed by the energy he radiated.
"This era," Yogan declared, his arm sweeping across the arena, "belongs to me!"
"This Octagon is my empire!"
"And I… am the only and eternal emperor!"
With that, he hurled the microphone to the ground. The impact echoed through the stadium, a perfect punctuation mark to his proclamation.
Without another glance, Yogan turned and draped the vibrant red five-star flag over his shoulders.
Under a downpour of camera flashes, he began his slow descent from the Octagon platform—like an emperor stepping down from a throne built on blood, sweat, and glory.
The crowd's cheers surged once more, wave after wave of sound following him all the way down the ramp.
Every camera, every commentator, every fan knew—
they were witnessing history.
A man who had conquered two divisions had just announced his intent to take the third.
A man who had silenced the loudest name in combat sports with a single palm now stood at the pinnacle of the fighting world.
And yet, for Yogan, it was only the beginning
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