"Yogan! Yogan! Over here!"
"Champion! You're our hero!"
Both sides of the fighter's tunnel were packed with media and frenzied fans from all over the world.
Flashbulbs exploded like thunder, trying to capture every flicker of expression on the new king's face—
but all they caught was an abyss-like calm.
Escorted by DC Cormier and Luke Rockhold, who were like two moving city walls, Yogan walked through the roaring sea of people and entered the long corridor leading to his private lounge.
Every UFC staff member, fighter, and even the expressionless security guards who passed by showed the same look in their eyes—a mix of awe, admiration, and a hint of fear.
They instinctively stepped aside, clearing the way for the monarch of the Octagon.
With a bang, the heavy iron door of the lounge shut behind them, cutting off the flood of noise and camera flashes outside.
At last, the world went silent.
"Ohhh! We did it! We f***ing did it!"
The long-suppressed euphoria burst like a dam.
DC Cormier, too excited to contain himself, charged forward like a brown bear and lifted Yogan clean off the ground, his immense strength nearly cracking bones.
"Double Champion! My God, Yogan—you're a Double Champion now!"
Luke Rockhold followed, punching Yogan's shoulder with giddy energy, his usually composed face twisted in fanatical disbelief.
Coach Javier's eyes were red. He didn't say a word—he just stepped forward and hugged his prized disciple tightly. That silent embrace said everything.
Then came a polite knock at the door. The official UFC doctor, Dr. Albert, an experienced white-haired man who had seen countless brutal fights, entered with USADA officials in tow.
"Alright, lads, let the Champion breathe," Dr. Albert said with a faint smile, motioning for DC and Luke to set Yogan down.
Then his tone hardened. "Champion, it's time for your routine check-up."
Yogan sat down, calm and composed. He'd done this dozens of times.
The doctor pulled on sterile gloves, shining a small flashlight into Yogan's eyes to check for signs of concussion.
He pressed along Yogan's cheekbones, ribs, and joints, methodically searching for hidden injuries.
At first, his face showed routine focus. Then confusion. Then disbelief. And by the end—pure shock.
After completing the full physical and overseeing Yogan's blood and urine tests with USADA officials, Dr. Albert peeled off his gloves and turned to Javier, his voice hoarse with astonishment.
"Javier, I've been a ringside doctor for over twenty years. I've checked thousands of fighters… but I've never seen anyone in this kind of condition after a major championship fight."
He glanced back at Yogan, his expression a mix of fear and awe.
"His heart rate dropped back to sixty-five beats per minute less than ten minutes after the fight. His blood pressure is steady—like a meditation master in deep focus. His lactic acid levels, nerve responses—everything's perfect! Honestly, I thought my equipment was broken. He doesn't even have a bruise! Apart from a little redness on his fists, he's completely unharmed."
Dr. Albert exhaled heavily, whispering the final words as if confessing a truth too strange to say aloud:
"Your fighter isn't human, Javier. He's a cold-blooded fighting machine wrapped in human skin."
Though softly spoken, those words rippled through the lounge like a stone tossed into calm water.
DC and Luke exchanged glances, pride gleaming in their eyes. They knew better than anyone what Yogan was capable of once his physical limits were fully unleashed.
And unbeknownst to them, a senior ESPN reporter passing by outside had overheard every word.
He froze, realizing this was the second bombshell story of the night—right after the knockout itself.
---
Meanwhile, across the stadium, inside Conor McGregor's locker room, the atmosphere was the complete opposite—violent, suffocating, and furious.
Bang! Crash!
An expensive LCD TV shattered under the swing of a steel chair.
Glass fragments scattered like snowflakes.
"F***! F***! F***!!!"
Conor roared like a caged beast, pacing madly. His once-pristine white Versace suit was wrinkled, torn, and stained with sweat. He looked nothing like the glamorous star who strutted to the Octagon hours ago—only a man stripped bare of pride.
He kicked over a champagne cart, sent fine pastries flying, smashed bottles, destroyed everything within reach.
His pride, the pillar of his empire, had been obliterated by Yogan—humiliated in front of millions watching around the globe.
"That coward… that liar…"
Conor's bloodshot eyes glared at the static-filled screen, as if Yogan's calm, unreadable face were still staring back at him from inside the noise.
"He stole my fight! My belt! It was supposed to be me! The Double Champion should've been me!"
His roar was raw—half rage, half despair.
He knew that after tonight, everything would change.
His titles, his fame, his image as UFC's biggest draw—all of it would be overshadowed by that one man from the East.
He was no longer the only king.
He wasn't even second.
He was just a clown in the coronation of a new ruler.
---
Back in Yogan's lounge, the heavy door suddenly burst open again.
"Bang!"
Dana White, UFC's president, stormed in like an unstoppable bull, his face flushed from excitement.
He'd clearly just come from Conor's chaos, but all traces of anger were gone—replaced by sheer exhilaration.
"Champion! You're a f***ing monster!" Dana roared, grabbing Yogan into a bear hug despite the presence of the strict USADA officials. "You're a gift from God to save the UFC!"
He pulled back, eyes gleaming with the joy of a man who had just struck gold.
"Did you see those numbers? Stocks, tickets, PPV—everything exploded! You alone took this company to another level!"
Dana clapped Yogan's shoulder hard, his excitement almost manic.
"Get ready for an unprecedented press conference! Reporters from all over the world are losing their minds! Yogan, tonight, you can say whatever you want. The whole UFC—hell, the whole world—is giving you the green light!"
Yogan looked at the grinning UFC boss, who could barely contain his euphoria. A faint smile curved his lips.
He understood.
From this moment onward, his connection with the UFC wasn't just that of an athlete and his employer.
He was no long
er just a piece on the board.
He had become a player—one powerful enough to shift the direction of the entire game.