Chapter 62 - Chapter 61: Cheat Cheats

Four o'clock in the afternoon. The MGM Grand Garden Arena was buzzing with tension, packed to capacity. Cameras flashed incessantly, reporters jostled for a better view, and the collective anticipation of thousands of fans created a palpable pressure that seemed almost physical. Every eye in the arena was trained on the stage, waiting for the moment when the featherweight unification fight between Yogan and Jose Aldo would officially be set in motion.Yogan emerged from the shadows of the backstage corridor. The months of brutal weight cutting had taken their toll. His body was fragile, emaciated almost beyond recognition. Every step required effort; his legs trembled as if they were made of glass. To keep him steady, Javier and DC Cormier flanked him, one on each side, acting like living crutches and guardian deities. The crowd didn't yet see the full picture, but those closest could already sense the enormity of what this man had endured.Under the bright stage lights, Yogan's newly bald head glistened, and his gaunt face resembled a skull, carved by the grueling deprivation of the past week. Reporters and fans alike gasped audibly."Oh my God," one shouted. "He looks like he just crawled out of Guantanamo!""This… this isn't weight loss," another muttered. "This is a sacrifice of life itself."Yogan, ignoring the murmurs, focused on the task ahead. He stepped onto the weighing platform, his frail hands resting lightly on a large white towel held by the UFC officials—a standard protocol meant to preserve modesty but also a final chance to achieve the precise weight required for the fight.Javier instinctively stepped forward, positioning his body strategically to block camera angles while adjusting the towel. At the same time, DC's anger flared—not at Yogan, but at the jeering fans supporting Aldo below the stage."What are you looking at, Brazil peasants!" DC shouted, his voice booming. "Your king is almost finished! Go home crying!"Cameras immediately captured his outburst, and social media buzzed as fans erupted at his audacity. But this was merely a distraction, a shield, and a signal.Yogan subtly placed his hands on the edges of the towel, a long-practiced technique developed over countless hours of training. By applying minimal upward pressure at precisely the right moment, he could shave a few tenths of a pound off the electronic scale—a move requiring perfect timing, coordination, and trust in his team. Any error could expose them and nullify their efforts.The weighing official bent over, scrutinizing the numbers on the scale. The tension in the arena was almost unbearable. The crowd fell silent, as though even breathing could disturb the fragile balance of fate. Time seemed to stretch infinitely.Then came the voice. Legendary announcer Bruce Buffer leaned forward, microphone in hand, and, with his signature high-pitched drawl, stretched each word into a thrilling crescendo:"ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE KILOS! HE DID IT!!!"The arena erupted. Yogan had barely made it, crossing the featherweight threshold by the thinnest margin. His body trembled, legs nearly giving out, but Javier and DC steadied him. Relief washed over the team, but it was fleeting.Aldo's corner erupted in protest."He's cheating! He cheated!" André Pederneiras, Aldo's head coach, bellowed at the Nevada State Athletic Commission officials. "I saw it! His hands touched the towel! You must weigh him again!"Slow-motion replays seemed to capture some irregularities, but DC's positioning and Javier's careful obstruction rendered the footage inconclusive. After a brief consultation, the commission declared the weigh-in valid. The numbers would stand.Though minor, the incident added a subtle spark of tension to the fight. The audience could sense the psychological warfare brewing between the two camps—one champion desperately holding onto his title, the other a determined underdog willing to go to the edge of human endurance.---The AftermathBackstage, Yogan's team worked quickly. Electrolyte fluids and high-sugar liquids were administered to replenish his depleted body, but even after the emergency nutrition, he was far from his prime.His muscles were soft and weak from dehydration, lacking the explosive snap that defined his style. Most importantly, his Godlike Reflexes, the ability that had saved him countless times in the Octagon, were dulled, hazy under the extreme stress imposed on his nervous system. Brief double vision flickered when he shifted his gaze.Javier watched him pace, concern etched into every line of his face. He had already issued this warning twice before, and now it was the final advisory:"Yogan, listen. It's not too late. If your condition does not improve, we reserve the right to withdraw you before the fight for medical reasons. No one will blame you; everyone has witnessed what you've endured."Yogan stopped pacing and glanced into the mirror. He saw a figure that was pale, fragile, and almost pitiful. Javier's words were rational—entering the Octagon in this state against an undefeated featherweight king would be sheer suicide.Yet as he looked deeper into his own reflection, the weakness faded. In its place burned a wild, calculated gleam, like a trapped predator ready to strike. A plan, audacious and reckless, surged in his mind—a gamble that could either define his legacy or destroy him."No, Coach," he said softly, almost cruelly. His lips curved into a pale, cold smile. "We are not retreating."Javier and DC exchanged knowing glances. They understood immediately: the fire in Yogan's eyes was unquestionable, a silent proclamation that he would face whatever came, no matter the cost. Without another word, they led him through the throng of fans and media to the presidential suite on the top floor.There, a few hours of emergency nutrition, intravenous fluids, and rest restored enough strength for him to endure the final tactical meeting.---Last-Minute PreparationsLas Vegas glowed outside the window, the city of sin now cloaked in a tense, almost ominous stillness—the calm before the storm.Inside, the suite was bright, sterile, and oppressive. Coach Javier stood before a whiteboard cluttered with intricate tactical diagrams, his voice hoarse from fatigue but still sharp as an eagle's."…Remember, Yogan," he said, tracing the movements of Aldo with his finger, "forget about chasing a knockout in the first two rounds. Aldo's patience is world-class. He will lie in wait like a seasoned predator. We cannot rush. We must be more patient than him, more disciplined than ever."He paused, ensuring the words sank in. "Use your movement. Use the low kicks we've drilled tens of thousands of times. Wear him down, attack his lead leg, drag him into the swamp we've prepared. This fight is about control, timing, and strategy. The Octagon is a chessboard, not a playground."Yogan listened silently, every fiber of his body still humming from dehydration, fatigue, and mental strain. Yet his focus was absolute. Every drop of blood and sweat that had been sacrificed over the last weeks, every hallucination and mental simulation, led to this moment.He nodded once, faintly, as if confirming a vow not only to his team but to himself."This is the culmination," he thought. "The unification fight. My last bout at featherweight. Everything I've done—every choice, every sacrifice—will be measured in forty-five minutes of war in the Octagon."Outside, Las Vegas held its breath. Inside, the presidential suite held the quiet calm of a battlefield. The fight was imminent, and Yogan's gamble, his audacious defiance of weakness and mortality, would soon be tested.The stage was set. The hellish week of preparation, the extreme weight loss, and the psychological torment all led to this single moment.The final battle, the test of mind, body, and spirit, was about to begin.---