Chapter 43 - Chapter 41 – The War Is About to Begin

When the press conference finally ended with Dana White's clipped "Thank you all" ringing across the stage, the tension in the arena didn't ease at all. In fact, the collective atmosphere of the entire fight world had shifted into a higher gear. It felt like the moment before a thunderstorm when the air grows heavy and electric.Less than ten minutes after the conference wrapped, ESPN's famous commentator Stephen A. Smith exploded on air. On his live program he leaned toward the camera and practically shouted:> "What did we just witness? We witnessed the psychological unravelling of a superstar. Conor McGregor fell—at least mentally—straight into the trap that Yogan set for him.> Yogan didn't compete with him to see who could shout louder or throw the nastier insult. Instead, he went for the foundation—the man's preparation, his discipline, the core of his confidence. It was subtle, clever, and absolutely deadly."In the digital age, words spread faster than wildfire. Within minutes, analytical posts sprouted on major fight forums, blogs, and social-media platforms like mushrooms after a summer rain."'Hunter Theory' is going to be a classic!" one user wrote. "Yogan set the tone for this showdown with just a single sentence!""I've never seen Conor lose his cool like this," another insisted. "His earlier trash talk was always controlled theatre. This time he was genuinely provoked. You could see it in his eyes—he was rattled.""That's the most terrifying thing about Yogan," a veteran fight blogger added. "He doesn't swing first, yet he kills invisibly. He beat Conor with wisdom and with words—the very weapons Conor was always proudest of."But Conor's loyal fans weren't about to sit quietly. They flooded comment sections with their own fiery counterattacks."You guys don't understand anything! This is Conor's style. He feeds off anger. He uses it to fuel his fire!""That Chinese dude is a total coward! He only dared to drop one sentence and then shut up. Scared stiff of Conor's aura, that's all!""Just wait. On fight night Conor will tell you with his fists who the real hunter is!"Across the internet, the fan bases of both fighters clashed like two armies. Threads ran hundreds of pages long. Memes, gifs, slow-motion breakdowns—every corner of the online world turned into a battlefield.Far from cooling the tension, the teleconference had only intensified it. Now everyone debated whether an unstable Conor would emerge more dangerous—burning hotter than ever—or whether he would burn out early, exhausting his focus and stamina before the cage door even shut.---The Storm in Los Angeles…Los Angeles, inside Conor's luxurious villa.The call had barely ended when Conor hurled his phone at the far wall."Crack!"The newest, most expensive model splintered into glittering shards."Ahhh!"He let out a roar so raw it seemed to tear at his throat and then flipped over the heavy glass coffee table in front of him. Shards rained across the marble floor.His head coach John Kavanagh and his manager Audie Attar stood a few steps back, silent, hands folded. They knew Conor right now was a powder keg with the fuse already lit. One careless word could make him explode.He paced the living room, chest heaving, muttering curses, before finally collapsing onto the leather sofa. His fingers dug into his hair."That man… that damn man…" he growled. "He actually dared to talk to me like that. He dared!"When Kavanagh sensed the edge of rage softening, he approached cautiously."Conor," he said in a low, steady tone, "you've fallen into his rhythm."Bloodshot eyes snapped up at him. Conor's glare was as sharp as broken glass.But Kavanagh didn't blink. "Every word Yogan said hit one thing—your preparation. And your reaction confirmed it. You are anxious and angry because deep down you know you haven't prepared the way you should. You let him win this round, Conor."Conor's chest rose and fell violently. He didn't answer, but his silence was agreement."Listen to me." Kavanagh's voice hardened. "We have less than fourteen days. Forget Aldo. Forget the old fight patterns. From now on, your entire mind holds only one name—Yogan."He ticked off points on his fingers. "His movement. His dodges. His low kicks. Especially that counterattack that gave Diamond so much trouble."He turned to Audie. "Cancel every business appearance, every meeting. Conor goes dark now—one hundred percent focus."Then back to Conor: "Replay the AKA Gym footage. All of it. I want you dreaming of Yogan's shadow even in your sleep."Conor stared at the floor. He picked up a shard of glass, squeezed until the sharp edge cut into his palm, and let blood drip onto the Persian carpet. His eyes narrowed. The wild rage cooled into something far more dangerous—a cold, precise killing intent.He had underestimated his opponent. What he thought was simple prey turned out to be a hunter every bit as cunning and far more patient. The war had truly begun.---Calm Before the Battle in San JoseMeanwhile, in San Jose, inside the office of the famed AKA Training Gym, the atmosphere was completely different.Where Conor's villa vibrated with rage and chaos, here a calm and efficient sense of triumph hung in the air. Yet beneath it a new tension coiled, the quiet focus of soldiers sharpening their blades.As soon as the teleconference ended, Daniel "DC" Cormier slammed his palm on the conference table with a grin."Well done, Yogan! That was beautiful!"He sprang to his feet, gesturing wildly. "I bet Conor's so mad right now he's tearing his house apart. 'Hunter Theory!' Man, that's going to be one of the most classic lines of your career."Luke Rockhold chuckled, eyes glued to his phone. "Twitter already has 'Silent Hunter' trending. Isabella, your PR team is killing it."Isabella smiled faintly but kept her gaze on the scrolling analytics on her laptop. Her voice stayed analytical, almost cool."We simply exploited the information gap and people's natural attraction to rebellion," she said. "Conor built his image as the invincible trash-talker. When someone appears who can out-calm him, out-think him, the public finds that refreshing and flocks to our side."Then she looked up, her tone sobering. "But this advantage is temporary. The world's eyes are on us now. Even the smallest mistake will cost us dearly."Her glance shifted to Yogan. Despite the victory in the public arena, his face showed no gloating. He drank the last of a strange-tasting electrolyte mix and met head coach Javier Mendez's eyes."A provoked monster," Yogan said quietly. "He can either lose his mind and reveal flaws… or become even more dangerous."Javier's smile faded. "I agree. We must prepare for the second possibility."He strode to the tactical whiteboard and, next to the words "Shadow of the Madman," wrote a new phrase: "Beast in the Trap.""A normal Conor keeps distance and rhythm, counter-punching," Javier explained, tapping his marker. "But a provoked, unprepared Conor may rush early—launch a furious assault to knock you out quickly and prove he's still the hunter. He'll try to counter your 'Hunter Theory' with his fists."He turned, eyes sharp as knives. "Luke, DC—the training changes now. You're no longer just imitating Conor; you're simulating Rampage-Mode Conor.""Luke!" Javier barked. "In round one, attack like a rabid dog. Forget stamina, forget results. Throw that left hand as fast as humanly possible. Your mission is to simulate Conor's suicide attack in the first three minutes.""DC!" he snapped. "Wrestling must be more aggressive. No timid takedowns. Every clinch, every shot carries the aura of tearing Yogan apart. We're preparing for desperate cage-grinding and ground-and-pound when Conor gets frustrated."The room's mood shifted instantly from celebratory to grimly focused.Yogan's eyes gleamed. This was exactly what he wanted—rehearsing the worst possible scenarios.He turned to the team nutritionist. "Phil, the sudden increase in workload could mess with my weight cut. Find the balance point between energy supply and weight loss."Phil adjusted his glasses. "Understood. We'll align high-intensity sessions with high-carb days in your carb-cycling plan. You'll have fuel when you need it. I'll also monitor potassium and magnesium closely to prevent cramping."At that moment Khabib Nurmagomedov, silent until now, spoke. His accented English rolled out like stones from a mountain stream."O Yogan," he said evenly, "when you provoke a bear, do not match its strength. Keep moving. Wear out its patience. Let it exhaust itself with missed attacks and useless roars."He stepped forward and tapped his fist lightly to Yogan's. His eyes were calm as the Caucasus Mountains but full of steel."Then cut its throat when it is weakest."Two strategies stood on the board now—Javier's frontal collision plan and Khabib's Dagestan choke tactic. Two different styles, same ultimate goal.Yogan inhaled deeply. He needed both—the ability to survive Conor's furious opening "three-axe" assault and the patience to drag him into deep waters. This was the real hunting plan.---Into the Hyperbolic Time ChamberIn the days that followed, the AKA Gym became a "Hyperbolic Time Chamber" in the heart of San Jose. The outside world disappeared.Yogan's life narrowed to four things: training, eating, physical therapy, sleeping. Even his entertainment—watching fight footage—fed directly into the mission.On his phone, deafening Irish chants and venomous boos poured in without pause. He began playing those sounds quietly at night, letting his subconscious adapt until even his dreams held the noise.During Rampage-Mode simulations Luke's punches slammed into him, DC's takedowns smothered him. Hunger pangs clawed at his stomach; thirst woke him in cold sweats from hypoglycemia.But through it all his heart grew calmer and harder. Watching footage again and again, his gaze became that of a sniper—extreme focus, absolute composure, life or death irrelevant.---Fight Week – Arrival in Las VegasMonday afternoon of Fight Week.A Gulfstream private jet descended smoothly onto a private runway at Las Vegas's McCarran International Airport. Yogan's team stepped out into the searing desert light of Sin City.Through the cabin window, a massive poster dominated the skyline, draped over the iconic green glass of the MGM Grand. The huge print showed the angry faces of Yogan and Conor McGregor. Bare torsos, clenched fists, glinting interim belts—storm clouds made of neon and ego announcing their arrival.Outside the VIP channel, media from every continent had already gathered, shoulder to shoulder with die-hard fans. Flashbulbs turned the air into an ocean of white light as soon as Yogan appeared behind security.Then he noticed two familiar figures standing just beyond the barricade. His steps slowed.The first was a broad-shouldered man with a rugged, challenging look—Li Jingliang, "The Leech," a proven UFC welterweight and one of the few Chinese fighters who had fought his way to respect with blood and grit.Beside him stood a slightly leaner man with an equally sharp, unwavering gaze. Yogan's chest tightened. Zhang Tiequan—the "Wolf of the Prairies," the first Chinese fighter ever to step into the UFC Octagon, a name that remained a beacon for all who followed.Though Zhang had long since left active competition, his presence still carried weight.They had come before all of them—pioneers. And now they were here to stand by Yogan at the edge of his own war.---