Sparring Day.
The iron gate of the Octagon slammed shut with a sharp click, the sound echoing through the vast space of the AKA Training Gym like a final judgment.
The atmosphere instantly turned heavy.
Coach Javier Mendez stood just outside the cage, arms folded across his chest, his sharp eyes sweeping over the fighters gathered around. When he spoke, his voice was calm—but every word carried unmistakable authority.
"Today's session is Shark Tank training," Javier announced. "Yogan, you'll stay inside the cage for three consecutive rounds, five minutes each. No rest in between."
The surrounding fighters straightened unconsciously.
"Your opponents will rotate in. Three sparring partners. Three completely different styles," Javier continued. "Each of them will fight you at full intensity. Their job is to give you everything they've got, just like a real championship fight."
He paused for a moment before delivering the most important part.
"Your goal isn't to knock them out. Your task is to execute our tactics perfectly—even under extreme fatigue."
A single word summed it all up.
"Gauntlet."
The name alone was enough to make seasoned fighters swallow hard.
This was the most brutal training method at AKA, usually reserved for champions on the eve of a title fight. It pushed not only the body, but also the willpower, concentration, and mental discipline of a fighter to the absolute breaking point.
And today, Javier had decided to unleash it—with three top-level sparring partners in one session.
Yogan stepped into the Octagon.
His expression was calm. Almost indifferent.
The first sparring partner entered the cage shortly after.
Former UFC Middleweight Champion Luke Rockhold.
Tall, long-limbed, and dangerous from any distance, Luke was famous for his flashy but devastating kicking game. His side kicks, roundhouse kicks, and spinning attacks had ended countless fights.
He was the perfect choice to simulate a long-range striker—someone who could threaten from angles and distances most fighters struggled to deal with.
The bell rang.
Round One.
Luke wasted no time.
He immediately established his rhythm, launching sharp mid-section kicks, deceptive high kicks, and crisp straight punches. His attacks flowed seamlessly, like a storm of limbs crashing toward Yogan from every direction.
To most fighters, it would have been overwhelming.
But Yogan didn't panic.
His reactions were frighteningly sharp.
His head movement was subtle, almost lazy—yet every kick and punch narrowly missed him by millimeters. He slipped, leaned, and swayed with perfect timing, like a pendulum suspended in midair.
It was as if he stood at the calm center of a violent storm.
No wasted movement.
No exaggerated defense.
No fear.
At the same time, his counterattacks were precise and merciless.
Sharp jabs snapped Luke's head back. Short hooks slipped through gaps in Luke's guard. Even with his championship-level reflexes, Luke couldn't fully avoid the incoming punishment.
Then, in the third minute, Luke saw an opening.
He launched a powerful roundhouse kick toward Yogan's ribs, intending to crush his midsection.
The moment Luke lifted his leg—
Yogan moved.
Instead of retreating, he stepped forward.
In an instant, he closed the distance, slipping inside Luke's kicking range as if he had teleported.
Before Luke's kick could land, Yogan's fists exploded.
A stiff jab snapped Luke's guard open.
A vicious left hook dug deep into the body.
An uppercut followed immediately, snapping Luke's head upward.
The combination was too fast to track.
Luke felt as if he had been swallowed by a swarm of hornets. Pain erupted in his abdomen, stealing the air from his lungs. He staggered backward uncontrollably until his back slammed against the cage fence.
His vision blurred.
He knew—deep down—that if this were a real fight, the next punch would end everything.
"Stop! Stop!" Luke raised his hand hurriedly. "I give up!"
The bell rang moments later.
Luke leaned against the cage, gasping for breath, his face filled with a mixture of frustration and disbelief.
"Yogan… your speed," he said hoarsely. "It's faster than before. Your sense of distance and timing—this isn't human. I didn't even see how you got inside."
Yogan simply nodded.
Luke was helped out of the cage, still shaking his head in disbelief.
But before he had even stepped down, the second sparring partner charged in.
A muscular welterweight fighter.
His style was instantly recognizable—high guard, strong base, relentless low kicks, and explosive counterpunching power. He was a near-perfect imitation of Tyron Woodley's wrestle-and-counter approach.
The bell rang again.
Round Two.
The second fighter came in aggressively, testing Yogan's legs with heavy low kicks while keeping his right hand coiled like a loaded cannon.
Yogan's breathing had quickened slightly after five intense minutes of combat—but his eyes remained calm.
He executed the plan perfectly.
Instead of forcing exchanges, he circled continuously, cutting angles and attacking the opponent's lead leg with crisp low kicks of his own. Each kick landed with a dull thud, slowly draining the opponent's mobility.
Then it happened.
The sparring partner saw his chance and unleashed a thunderous right overhand punch.
Gasps echoed throughout the gym.
But Yogan reacted instantly.
He dipped his head just enough to let the punch sail overhead—then stepped inside and buried a savage left hook straight into the opponent's liver.
"Ugh!"
The sound that escaped the man's throat wasn't a scream—it was a choked gasp of pure pain.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed to his knees, clutching his abdomen, his face drained of all color.
The round hadn't even finished.
Two down.
Before the bell could ring, the third sparring partner stepped into the cage.
A lightweight fighter known throughout the gym as a "perpetual motion machine." His greatest weapons were pressure, stamina, and relentless forward movement.
His job was simple:
Break Yogan while he was exhausted.
Round Three.
The lightweight fighter attacked immediately, throwing punches in volume, constantly moving forward, never giving Yogan space to breathe.
This time, Yogan didn't circle.
He stood his ground.
Jabs snapped out with machine-like consistency. Blocks, slips, counters—every movement was efficient, clean, and perfectly timed. There was no wasted energy.
Even under extreme fatigue, Yogan fought like a textbook brought to life.
He calculated every exchange with cold precision.
Five minutes felt like an eternity.
When the final bell rang, the third sparring partner bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
Yogan stood upright in the center of the Octagon.
Soaked in sweat.
But unbroken.
The gym fell into complete silence.
One man versus three.
Fifteen minutes of continuous high-intensity combat.
Three elite sparring partners.
And Yogan had handled them all—without collapsing, without losing composure, without breaking strategy.
"Is he… still human?" a young fighter whispered.
Daniel Cormier and Cain Velasquez exchanged glances. The shock in their eyes said everything.
They knew Yogan was strong.
They hadn't known he was this strong.
Javier Mendez stood silently at cageside, his expression unreadable—but inside, his thoughts were in chaos.
He had coached champions his entire life.
But Yogan was different.
Every time he returned from a break, it was as if he had undergone a complete version upgrade—not just physically, but mentally and tactically.
Fight IQ.
Instinct.
Stamina.
All of it had reached terrifying levels.
Yogan now felt less like a fighter—and more like a being from a higher dimension.
August 26, 2017.
Javier gave the entire team the day off.
Because tonight, the most anticipated fight in combat sports history was finally happening.
Mayweather vs. Conor.
The team gathered at Yogan's villa, crowding into his massive home theater. Beer and pizza covered the table, laughter and excitement filling the room.
Everyone wanted to see whether Conor McGregor could truly trouble the undefeated boxing king.
The fight began.
For the first three rounds, Conor performed brilliantly.
His unconventional stance, distance management, and unpredictable rhythm made Mayweather uncomfortable. On the scorecards, Conor even appeared to be ahead.
Cheers erupted throughout the room.
"Holy shit, he might actually do it!"
"Conor's winning!"
Only Yogan remained silent.
His eyes never left the screen.
His expression never changed.
Because he already knew how this story would end.