Chapter 66 - Chapter 66 — The Most Said Thing

When it became Yogan's turn to speak, the entire atmosphere of the press room shifted.He began with courtesy, giving due respect to José Aldo's legendary career — humble in posture yet carrying the unique composure of a winner. Cameras clicked, pens hovered.Then a reporter asked about a rematch. Yogan's answer cut through the air:> "Mr. Aldo, I respect everything you've accomplished over the last decade. But an era has ended, and the wheels of history will not turn back. I finished the fight in six seconds; that proved everything that needed to be proven."He paused, letting the words sink in, then changed the subject. His gaze swept across the curious eyes below the stage, leaving behind a trace of mystery:> "As for this Featherweight championship belt, I won't give it up — at least not for now. Whether I return to defend it in the future depends on whether there are still enough interesting opponents."He spoke majestically, but inside he knew the truth. With his current physical condition, enduring another hellish weight cut would be nearly impossible.The reason he refused to vacate the belt immediately was simple: he didn't want an opportunistic "Irish clown" to scoop it up uncontested.Want to buy a ready-made throne? Not so easy.This time, he would teach the "King" a deeper lesson. Maybe then the man would think twice before charging so recklessly again.Yogan's gaze settled on Aldo, not far away. His voice stayed calm but sliced like a surgeon's scalpel:> "King, calm down. You didn't lose to me; you lost to your anger. You were too eager to prove something to the world, so you closed your eyes and jumped headfirst into the trap I'd prepared."There was no mockery in his tone — only a chillingly precise post-fight analysis. He had exposed the real root of Aldo's defeat: psychological instability.Under his sunglasses Aldo's expression was unreadable, but the tight jaw, the vein rising in his temple, the fists clenching under the table betrayed the shock and reluctance within him.Reporters below the dais erupted, shutters flashing like lightning to capture the moment. They knew Yogan's calm yet ruthless summary would dominate tomorrow's headlines.---Across town: an Irish storm brewingIn a luxury hotel suite, the air was heavy with cigar smoke and evaporating Irish whiskey. Conor McGregor and his team crowded around a giant LCD screen, watching the very press conference he was supposed to be headlining.When Yogan's humble-but-loaded remark — "Whether I defend depends on whether there are enough interesting opponents" — played through the speakers, Conor slammed his crystal glass onto the mahogany table. Amber liquid splashed across the polished wood.He wasn't drunk. His face burned not with alcohol but with humiliation and rage at being ignored.> "Interesting opponents? He's talking about me! That coward is mocking me!"His roar made the glassware tremble.Head coach John Kavanagh opened his mouth to calm him, but it was too late. Conor shot up from the leather couch, snatched a teammate's phone still streaming the conference, and stared at Yogan's calm, almost arrogant face on the screen.He knew those words were a poisoned arrow — the condescending, charitable taunt of a victor at an outside rival. Ego, the monster inside him, broke its leash.Without a word to his PR staff, he opened Twitter and pounded the keyboard with furious thumbs. In seconds a barrage of capital-letter insults blazed across the screen, accompanied by a screenshot of Yogan's in-Octagon gesture.> "AN OLD MAN WHO GOT KNOCKED OUT IN SIX SECONDS AND A CHINESE COWARD WHO RAN STRAIGHT TO LIGHTWEIGHT — YOU TWO ARE A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN!""FEATHERWEIGHT IS MY DOMAIN! ALL THE MONEY, ALL THE ATTENTION, ALL THE GLORY BELONGS TO ME! I AM THE ONLY KING HERE!""YOGAN! DON'T RUN LIKE A SCARED RAT! IF YOU DARE, STAY AND FIGHT ME! I'LL SHOW YOU THAT SIX SECONDS IS TOO LONG FOR ME!"The press conference had barely ended before Conor's explosive tweet spread like wildfire — a ladle of cold water poured into boiling oil. The public storm doubled in intensity.But at the center of the hurricane, Yogan had already moved on.---Back at the MGM GrandReturning to the presidential suite atop the MGM Grand, surrounded by staff and security, Yogan carried himself with a king's aura and a trace of exhaustion only he could feel.On the vast dining table, a recovery banquet awaited — a Michelin-three-star spread of M9-grade tomahawk steaks, slow-cooked Norwegian salmon glistening with delicate oil, quinoa salad, and whole-wheat pasta rich in complex carbs, all personally approved by Dr. Phil.Yogan didn't glance at it. He walked straight to the bar, grabbed a bottle of icy electrolyte water from a silver bucket, uncapped it, and drained it in one go.> "Everyone, sit down."He set the bottle down. His voice was calm but carried unmistakable authority. Celebration could wait. Business came first.> "Isabella, David — let's talk numbers."Daniel Cormier started to crack a joke to break the tension but swallowed it when he met Yogan's cool, steady eyes. This young man's leadership had only hardened with the crown on his head.Isabella Rossi switched instantly into work mode, connecting her tablet to the suite's projector. Graphs and figures flashed onto the big screen.> "Yogan, we didn't just win — we dominated."Her voice combined professional crispness with hidden excitement.> "Three hours after the fight, your global news visibility has already surpassed one billion impressions. Preliminary PPV data: 1.65 million buys. This shatters every UFC record from middleweight down."She took a breath, then delivered the final blow:> "After base expenses, PPV shares, and double bonuses, your total personal pre-tax income from this fight is estimated at $7.15 million."Even DC and Luke, veterans of big nights, gasped.> "I always thought you had to trash-talk Conor nonstop to sell this many PPVs," Luke muttered.> "No."Yogan shook his head and looked around the room, voicing his core lesson from the night:> "This proves one thing. In the Octagon, no matter how loud you talk, nothing is as real as a brilliant victory. If you win — win beautifully, win in a way that silences everyone — the audience will pay to watch you."DC slapped his thigh, grinning.> "Well said! Victory is the best advertisement in the world."Laughter broke the tension for a moment. But beneath the jokes lay a shared realization: the fight had ended, yet the true contest — the behind-the-scenes game of contracts, politics, and legacy — was only beginning.---