That night, Yogan opened his laptop and logged onto the official UFC website.
The bright glow of the screen illuminated his sharp features as the Lightweight division rankings appeared before his eyes. To him, the list wasn't just names—it looked like a carefully marked hunting map, each opponent a piece of prey waiting for him to choose.
At the very top sat the reigning champion: Rafael dos Anjos.
Yogan's lips curled into a cold, predatory smile.
Dos Anjos was no ordinary fighter. Known as the Brazilian Buffalo, his ferocity had carved fear into the division. His low kicks cracked like a lumberjack's axe felling trees, his suffocating cage pressure bulldozed opponents until they crumbled, and his jiu-jitsu roots were steeped in the traditions of a family that had lived and breathed grappling for generations. Once Dos Anjos dragged someone into his world on the canvas, it was like being swallowed by quicksand—every frantic movement only pulled the victim deeper.
But Yogan's mind was sharper than a blade. He knew that every strength carried with it a hidden weakness.
"A perfect target to test my new weapon," he murmured to himself.
He replayed Anjos' fights in his head—the slightly stiff combinations, the mechanical rhythm of his boxing, the way his movements looked powerful but lacked fluid fluidity. Against the average fighter, that style was an unstoppable engine. But against someone who thrived on speed, unpredictability, and razor-edge precision like Yogan? Those flaws were gaping wounds waiting to be exploited.
"He's used to smothering opponents with stamina and pressure," Yogan thought, tracing the name with his fingertip on the screen. "But he has never faced a ghost who can completely outpace his reactions."
His eyes drifted downward to the man holding the number one contender spot—Anthony Pettis.
The photo on screen showed Pettis' handsome face, framed by the highlights of his career. His "Showtime Kick" off the cage remained one of the most unforgettable moments in UFC history. Pettis was the Octagon's artist, weaving leg techniques into a dazzling waltz of violence. Every spin, every strike carried an elegance that mesmerized audiences.
Yet, in Yogan's eyes, beauty without strength was fragile.
"A fragile masterpiece," he whispered with a note of regret. "His boxing defense and wrestling are cracks that no artist's paint can cover. My fists will show him what violent aesthetics truly mean—the art of destruction."
Scrolling further, Yogan's gaze landed on Donald "Cowboy" Cerrone, ranked second.
For the first time that night, respect flickered across his expression.
Cerrone was more than a fighter—he was the embodiment of a warrior's soul. Always ready to step into battle, fighting with a wild heart that embraced both victory and loss. His arsenal of strikes—fists, kicks, knees, elbows—made him versatile, a man fluent in every language of combat.
"A man anyone would share a drink with after the war," Yogan thought sincerely.
But as much as he admired Cerrone, he also saw the truth.
"Cowboy is skilled in everything, but he lacks the heart of a king. When the crown is at stake, when pressure reaches its peak, he always falls just short. A true champion isn't only a fighter—he's someone who can rip his own heart from his chest and throw it on the battlefield."
The next name drew an entirely different kind of response.
Khabib Nurmagomedov.
"The Eagle."
This wasn't just another opponent—this was a brother, a comrade, someone Yogan respected with all his heart.
Khabib's story was a tragedy at this moment in time. Repeated ACL injuries had chained him away from the Octagon for nearly two years. Critics questioned whether his career had ended before it could reach its peak. Was this eagle grounded forever, wings clipped?
But Yogan didn't share the world's doubt. He knew.
"Khabib will return," he whispered with conviction. "And when he does, he will be even more terrifying than before. The world has not yet seen the true wrath of the Eagle."
Ranked fourth stood Eddie Alvarez, the "Underground King."
Alvarez was a survivor of the bloodiest back-alley wars. His resume was forged not in polished arenas but in cages filled with grit, sweat, and desperation. A former Bellator champion, Alvarez carried dynamite in his fists, grit in his heart, and the stubbornness of a man who refused to ever be broken.
Every one of his fights was chaos incarnate, a car crash of fists and wills colliding head-on.
"A born warrior," Yogan commented. "But reckless. He loves to exchange too much, falling into traps of his own pride. My precision is a gulf he can never cross."
And then… Tony Ferguson.
"El Cucuy."
The moment Yogan's eyes fell on the name, a fire lit within him.
This wasn't ordinary excitement—it was battle hunger, raw and pure.
Tony Ferguson was a fighter from another dimension. His style wasn't predictable—it was madness dressed in violence. His spinning elbows carved crimson trails across the canvas. His ground game twisted reality with chokes and scrambles that defied logic. His cardio seemed infinite, like a machine that never slowed, a storm that never ended.
"A madman," Yogan muttered with a grin spreading across his face. "A true genius of chaos. Fighting him will not be about tactics or strategy—it will be the raw collision of will, creativity, and instinct."
The thought thrilled him. The prospect of such a battle set his blood on fire.
He leaned back for a moment, taking in the list as a whole. This was not just a group of fighters—this was the new Five Tigers of the Lightweight division, men who would forge its golden era. And yet, Yogan's eyes saw deeper, into the names who hadn't yet risen but soon would.
Dustin Poirier.
The "Diamond" had just been shattered in Featherweight—shattered by Yogan himself. Broken, humiliated, but not destroyed. Diamonds only grow harder under pressure. Yogan knew that Poirier would find rebirth in the Lightweight division and rise again as a true contender.
"We will meet again," Yogan thought. "And next time, you'll be stronger. That is the mark of a man with a champion's heart."
Justin Gaethje.
At present, Gaethje was still the WSOF champion, yet to step into the UFC. But Yogan could already see him—a whirlwind of reckless violence, a man who turned every fight into a coin toss between life and death. His leg kicks carried the weight of sledgehammers, his fists the rage of boulders.
"A human pile driver," Yogan chuckled. "But too reckless. High risk, high reward—against me, there will be no reward."
Charles Oliveira.
The future king of submissions. Right now, he was still wavering between Featherweight and Lightweight, trapped by the weight of immaturity and the burden of cutting too much weight. His ground game was sorcery itself, a labyrinth of chokes and locks.
But he was fragile.
"Your chin won't hold against me," Yogan whispered. "As long as I don't fall into your traps, you will drown in my storm of strikes."
And finally, the name that drew out a smirk filled with both disdain and anticipation—Conor McGregor.
The Irishman was still stirring chaos in the Featherweight division, but Yogan knew it was only a matter of time before he stormed into Lightweight. McGregor's left hand was a weapon, his psychological warfare legendary. He was a storm of confidence that broke weaker men before the first punch was thrown.
"Troublesome, loud, but dangerous," Yogan acknowledged.
With that, he shut his laptop.
The rankings faded from the screen, but they burned brighter than ever in his mind.
The division was in transition. The old kings were fading. The new ones had not yet risen. The Lightweight throne was waiting, and countless contenders circled it like hungry wolves.
But there was room for only one true ruler.
Leaning back in his chair, eyes glowing with quiet confidence, Yogan whispered to himself:
"I will be that ruler. The only true God of this division."