The medical team outside the cage—like a group of well-trained battlefield vultures—burst through the cage door the moment Anjos's body hit the mat. They rushed in with first-aid kits and stretchers, moving with the speed and precision of a hundred-meter sprint.
They quickly pried open Anjos's jaw to prevent him from biting his tongue, checked his pupils, and assessed his vital signs. Every movement was sharp, clean, and efficient, like a surgeon performing a delicate emergency operation.
Inside the T-Mobile Arena, this modern coliseum that could hold twenty thousand spectators, silence reigned for three suffocating seconds—a silence so deep it felt like time itself had stopped. Then, like a dam breaking, the entire arena exploded into life.
A deafening roar erupted, shaking the very foundation of the arena.
"Wooooo—!!!"
"Double Champion! Double Champion! An unprecedented Double Champion!!!"
"My God! He actually did it! He made history in the most unbelievable way!!!"
Screams, cheers, and disbelief merged into a tidal wave of sound that nearly tore the roof off the stadium. The front rows could feel the ground tremble beneath their feet. The air itself seemed to burn with excitement.
And yet, at the very center of this chaos, the man who had caused it all—Yogan—remained calm.
He didn't drop to his knees, didn't scream to the heavens, didn't climb the cage like other champions.
When his final punch connected with Anjos, he didn't follow up. He just stood there, motionless.
Because he knew.
That punch—meticulously planned, perfectly executed, thrown with every ounce of strength he possessed—was unstoppable.
Even a glancing blow would have been enough to send Anjos into unconsciousness.
Yogan lowered his gaze. His gloved fists trembled slightly from the immense force he had unleashed. His eyes moved toward the fallen opponent—Anjos, lying motionless on the canvas, the symbol of a fallen era.
There was no wild joy on Yogan's face. No tears. No celebration.
Only quiet satisfaction.
Cold. Calculated.
Like a grandmaster whispering "checkmate" after a flawless match.
He had done it.
The second step of his coronation was complete—perfectly, undeniably, and with devastating impact.
He was now The King.
The only King—ruling two divisions at once.
---
"KO! Another KO!"
At the commentary table, Joe Rogan had completely lost control. He grabbed at his hair, eyes wide, voice shaking with disbelief.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I don't even know what words to use right now! We are witnessing the first-ever Double Champion in history—two belts, both divisions, both by knockout! His name is Yogan! Remember it! From tonight, the fighting world will never be the same!"
Inside the Octagon, Yogan slowly walked to his corner.
Coach Javier handed him the five-starred red flag he had prepared earlier.
Yogan took it, his movements deliberate and reverent, and draped it over his shoulders.
The crowd's roar turned into a thunderous rhythm—cheers, camera flashes, chants—until even Bruce Buffer, the legendary announcer, had to shout over the noise.
"Ladies and gentlemen… now—is the moment!"
His voice was hoarse, but filled with passion as he stretched every syllable like a fanfare for a king.
"The winner of this bout—by KO!!!"
"And becoming the new… undisputed UFC Lightweight World Champion!!!"
"And still the… undisputed UFC Featherweight World Champion!!!"
"He is from China—'The Lightning'—Yogan!!!"
The crowd erupted.
Yogan raised his arms high as UFC President Dana White personally wrapped the gleaming new Lightweight Championship Belt around his waist.
One side—Featherweight.
The other—Lightweight.
Both gold. Both earned in blood and sweat.
Under the blinding lights of the world, he stood tall, unchallenged.
At that moment, Yogan was the strongest man on the planet.
---
But as the atmosphere reached its peak—when the celebration had reached its highest note—a sudden disturbance rippled through the arena.
A figure, radiating arrogance and fury, broke through the line of security at cageside.
Like a wild bull crashing through the gates, he vaulted the fence and stormed into the Octagon.
Conor McGregor.
His face twisted with jealousy and rage, his designer white Versace suit doing little to hide his madness.
He looked like a beast crashing into a royal coronation.
"That belt is mine!" he screamed, voice cracking with fury. "You cheat! You coward!"
Conor jabbed a finger toward the gold belt around Yogan's waist, his voice echoing through the arena.
"You stole the fight that should've been mine! You don't deserve that belt!"
He lunged forward, but two figures—DC Cormier and Luke Rockhold—were already there, stepping in front of Yogan like walls of flesh and steel.
"Get out of here, loser!" DC roared, his massive arms spreading wide to block Conor's charge.
Security rushed in, surrounding the fighters, trying to contain the chaos.
The arena was in uproar once again.
Cameras flashed. Fans screamed. Commentators shouted into their microphones.
And through it all, Yogan simply looked at Conor—calm, unbothered, eyes cold and sharp.
No anger.
No fear.
Only disdain.
He stepped forward slowly and signaled DC and Luke to move aside.
Under the gaze of millions watching worldwide, Yogan did something no one expected.
He stopped just a meter from Conor.
Then, wordlessly, he reached up, unbuckled the Featherweight Championship Belt from his shoulder…
…and tossed it lightly at Conor's feet.
The belt hit the floor with a metallic thud that seemed to echo endlessly.
Conor froze.
The entire arena froze.
Even the commentators went silent.
Yogan took the microphone from Joe Rogan and spoke, his voice steady but carrying power that filled the entire space.
"You want a belt to prove yourself?" he said quietly. "Take it. It's just an outdated toy I don't need anymore. From today, it's no longer worthy of me."
His tone wasn't loud—but it hit harder than any punch.
It was humiliation.
Pure, calculated humiliation.
In that moment, Yogan didn't just beat Conor in the cage—he stripped away his pride, his legacy, his very identity.
The throne that Conor had once dreamed of reclaiming was now discarded like trash at his feet.
"You—!!!"
Conor's face turned red, then purple, his body shaking with rage. His pride was being torn apart, trampled in front of the entire world.
He let out a roar like a wounded animal, his voice cracking with fury.
Then—he snapped.
Conor shoved away the guards and lunged at Yogan again, fists swinging wildly!
The Octagon descended into chaos once more—security flooding the cage, referees shouting, coaches holding each other back.
But Yogan didn't flinch.
He stood tall, still and composed, like a king watching a fallen jester flail before him.
His calmness only made the contrast sharper—one man at the peak of the world, and another drowning in jealousy and madness.
In the hearts of everyone watching, the truth was undeniable:
A new era had begun.
And its ruler's name… was Yogan.