One hour later, at the UFC 200 post-fight press conference.
The venue was already packed with long lenses and microphones from over five hundred media outlets worldwide—a scale so immense it surpassed even the Super Bowl and the Olympic opening ceremonies.
On every reporter's face was an uncontrollable excitement and anticipation; they knew they were about to witness one of the most important press conferences in sports history.
When Yogan walked onto the podium surrounded by his team, the entire hall erupted in thunderous applause and a sea of flashing lights, as if daylight had descended.
He wore a custom-tailored black pinstripe suit by Tom Ford, the perfect cut outlining the powerful contours of his body.
Unlike other champions who carried their gold belts on their shoulders, he held the Featherweight belt in his left hand and the Lightweight belt in his right—like two insignificant trophies—and walked unhurriedly to the center seat beside Chairman Dana White.
He sat down calmly, and then, under the gaze of the entire world, casually placed the two golden belts—symbols of supremacy in two divisions—with a metallic clank, crossing them in front of the microphone.
That seemingly casual gesture carried a silent, kingly sense of dominance.
It was as if he were declaring: These two belts are just the beginning.
Anjos did not attend. The official UFC explanation was "under medical observation," but everyone knew he was being treated in the hospital.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the UFC 200 post-fight press conference!"
As soon as the host finished speaking, countless arms shot up from the audience, the scene resembling a pack of hungry sharks catching the scent of blood.
The first question came from ESPN's ace reporter, and it went straight to the heart of the matter.
"Mr. Yogan, congratulations on becoming the first two-division champion in UFC history. You ended Anjos's reign with a nearly perfect, suffocating performance. How would you evaluate your opponent tonight—and your own performance, which was nothing short of a work of art?"
Yogan picked up the microphone in front of him and leaned back in his chair, his posture as relaxed as if he were attending an afternoon tea party.
"First of all," his voice, clear and steady, carried through the speakers to every corner of the venue, "I respect Rafael dos Anjos. He is a true warrior, a top champion. He gave his all and deserves everyone's applause."
These words were dignified and reflected his regal composure.
However, his tone shifted, revealing a cold, surgical sharpness beneath the calm.
"But as I said before the fight, his system is too traditional. He lost to evolution."
He paused briefly before continuing, his eyes steady and expression unreadable.
"His movement patterns, his punching rhythm, his defensive habits under pressure—everything was within my calculations.
Tonight's fight, from the moment the bell rang, the outcome was already determined. He was merely following the script I had written for him, step by step, toward an unavoidable end."
That calm yet cruel post-mortem sent chills through the reporters present.
He wasn't describing a fight; he was declaring a fact—like a creator explaining the destiny he himself had authored.
The second question came from an Irish sports media outlet, carrying a clearly provocative undertone.
"Yogan, Conor McGregor rushed into the Octagon and called you a 'thief' and a 'coward,' claiming you stole the double-champion fight that should have been his. After the fight, he even ranted on social media, demanding an immediate rematch with you. What is your response to this?"
Hearing Conor's name, Yogan sneered, his expression filled with undisguised contempt.
"Response? Why should I respond to a clown who was pushed to the ground by my slap and cried like a child?"
He looked straight at the Irish reporter, his eyes cold and unflinching.
"I stand here with two world championship belts in my hands. And him? What does he have? Besides that interim belt I threw to him like trash, what else does he have left?"
Yogan's tone was biting, every word landing like a slap across Conor's face.
"Listen," he continued, his expression sharp and his voice steady, "if he wants to fight me, he can. But not now.
Perhaps after he learns how to be a graceful loser—say, by first fighting Aldo in a rematch for that Featherweight toy scepter I no longer need. If he wins, then he can get in line.
Before I conquer the Welterweight division, if I still have time, I might consider giving him a chance to make some money."
Those words completely humiliated Conor, nailing him to the pillar of shame as a "loser" and a "clown." Yogan's dominance and arrogance left no doubt—he was the tyrant of the Octagon.
Finally, a reporter from the authoritative combat data site FightMetric stood up. Under the eager gazes of everyone present, he asked the question that the entire audience was waiting for.
"Mr. Yogan, regarding your technical statistics from tonight—one number is simply miraculous: Anjos's effective strikes landed on you were… zero.
How did you manage to remain unscathed in a fierce confrontation with a top champion? Does this mean you are invincible?"
The question plunged the entire venue into silence once again.
For the first time, Yogan showed a faint, amused smile.
"Invincible?" He shook his head. "No. There's no invincible person in this world. I just… went further than them."
He leaned slightly forward, eyes glimmering under the spotlight.
"All of you—Anjos, Conor, Aldo, and those champions I'm about to challenge—you're still fighting with your bodies, with your muscles and bones. You chase after faster, stronger, harder."
"And I…" He gently tapped his temple with his finger, a mysterious curve forming on his lips. "I fight with this."
"My reactions, my predictions, my timing—that's not technique. That's something from another dimension. You're trying to hit a ghost with your fists, and that itself is a joke."
He stood up slowly, ignoring Dana White's pleading gaze behind him and the countless raised arms of reporters below the stage.
"So, you don't need to analyze why I achieved 'zero strikes landed.' That's too complex for you."
He picked up the two glittering gold belts from the table, one in each hand, then turned to face all the cameras aimed at him.
His voice lowered, but every syllable carried the weight of authority—the decree of a new emperor.
"You just need to know that I came to conquer."
"This era is my era."
"This Octagon is my Empire."
"And I am the only, and eternal… Emperor here."
After those words, he gently placed the microphone back on the table.
As the reporters burst into a frenzy of flashing lights and frantic shouts, Yogan turned and walked away, calm and composed, with Dana White watching from behind—his expression a mix of helplessness and admiration.
What he left behind was a solitary yet majestic figure—holding two gold belts that gleamed like the crowns of a king.
That image would soon spread across the world, forever remembered as the moment the "Tyrant" declared his reign.
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