The room went completely still.Everyone's eyes were fixed on Yogan, waiting for his decision.He leaned back in the chair, one elbow on the armrest, fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the table. The soft tap…tap…tap echoed like a metronome, each beat stretching the silence longer. The glow of the ceiling lights made the championship belt on the wall gleam faintly, a constant reminder of what he had already achieved—and what he could lose if he failed to plan for the future.When David Chen read aloud the figure of more than two million U.S. dollars per year, the number didn't shock Yogan. The first thought that crossed his mind was simple: this investment is worth it. It wasn't just a question of vanity; it was about survival at the highest level of combat sports. He knew that the difference between a champion and a "former champion" was often hidden behind the scenes—in the science, the staff, the recovery, the preparation.He could afford it. His bank accounts were healthy; the endorsement checks kept arriving. Two million dollars was a heavy price tag for most fighters, but to him it was a ticket—perhaps the only ticket—to the future he envisioned.Yet, as his fingers kept drumming, a flood of memories came unbidden.He remembered the young boxers he had seen back in China, working two or three jobs during the day—delivery men, bouncers, gym assistants—just to keep the lights on, then sneaking into dimly lit gyms at night to train. He remembered the tiny regional tournaments where athletes taped their own hands and borrowed mouthguards because they couldn't afford proper gear. He remembered the whispered stories of fighters forced to treat their injuries with improvised therapy or outdated folk remedies because modern rehabilitation was out of reach.He thought of the bodies that wore out before their time, the knees that gave out, the shoulders that never fully healed, the dreams cut short. He thought of the loneliness of those fighters who, in the wilderness of world combat sports, had only passion and stubborn determination to guide them.Two million dollars for him meant progress. For them, it was a wall—an impassable chasm between hope and reality.His success alone was magnificent, but if he could use his success as a bridge for others—if he could carve a road for young fighters from his country to cross that chasm—then perhaps that sense of accomplishment would be deeper than any belt strapped around his waist.A quiet voice rose inside him: "This money will be spent anyway. Why not make it count?"He straightened a little and turned his gaze to David Chen, who was still standing at the whiteboard, marker in hand. Yogan's voice came out calm, measured, yet carrying an unmistakable weight:"David… your calculations are very conservative."David blinked. "What?""The scale is too small."For a moment, the room seemed to exhale collectively. Isabella, his representative, tilted her head. Dr. Phil, his nutritionist, paused mid-scribble. Even the hum of the air conditioning felt louder.A thoughtful gleam flashed across Yogan's dark eyes. He spoke slowly, but his mind was racing far ahead. "Serving only me is a waste," he murmured. "Maybe we can do… more."He let the words hang in the air. In that silence, the shape of a larger plan unfolded in his mind, growing from a single point into a vast, interconnected web."What I want to build," Yogan said, his voice gaining force with every word, "is not just a team to serve me, but an elite training base for China Power—an incubator that can offer the world's best training, rehabilitation, nutrition, and media support to every talented, hardworking Chinese fighter who earns the chance. A place where our fighters can stand shoulder to shoulder with the best in the world."The vision landed like thunder. Isabella's mouth opened slightly. David's marker slipped in his fingers. Even Dr. Phil leaned forward, eyes bright.But as the excitement swelled, Yogan's brow furrowed. A thorn of doubt pricked at the edges of his plan.If he truly built an independent, high-tech center—essentially a rival gym—how would Coach Javier and his brothers at AKA perceive it? Would they see it as betrayal? Would they think he had grown strong and then chosen to "go solo"? He owed much of his career to that gym. It was his home in the U.S., the place where he had bled and sweated and become a champion. He didn't want to fracture that bond.Was there a way to achieve both goals—fulfilling his vision while also strengthening, not weakening, the AKA family?He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, and the answer came to him like a flash of lightning."No," he said aloud, shaking his head. "Building a separate center isn't the best path. I have a better idea."All three of them looked at him expectantly. His voice became clear, deliberate, and filled with energy."We will not light a new stove," Yogan declared. "We will add bricks and tiles."He stood now, walking to the whiteboard where David's numbers were scrawled. He picked up a fresh marker, underlined the total figure, then drew a bold circle around it."Isabella, David," he said, "I want you to do two things immediately."He wrote a big "1" on the board."First, we make a direct, personal investment in AKA Gym. Not a simple donation, but an official strategic investment. I want to become one of AKA's shareholders. You will discuss the specific percentage and the amount with Coach Javier. But my condition is this: the investment must be large enough to fund a comprehensive, unprecedented upgrade of the entire facility."As he spoke, he began sketching boxes and arrows on the whiteboard, mapping out a vision so vivid that everyone felt they could almost see the new gym rising before their eyes."I want to double the size of AKA's current facility," he said, his tone gathering momentum like a rising tide. "We'll purchase the best strength and conditioning equipment in the world—replace every outdated bench press, every worn-out treadmill. We'll establish an independent rehabilitation and physical therapy center inside AKA itself. We'll bring in Sweden's most advanced cryotherapy chambers, Germany's hyperbaric oxygen therapy units, and a full suite of Normatec pneumatic recovery systems."He paused to draw a small octagon on the board. "Here," he said, tapping it. "Next to the cage, we install a state-of-the-art motion-capture analysis system. Coaches will be able to analyze every technical movement in real time. No guesswork. Data-driven mastery."He turned, his voice rich with conviction: "I want AKA's facilities to become the global benchmark—the training center every fighter dreams about."He drew a big "2" below the first point."Second," he continued, "we create the AKA–China Power Scholarship program. I'll contribute a set amount of money every year to a dedicated fund. That fund will sponsor promising Chinese fighters to train at AKA for six months to a year."He started listing benefits on the board, each one like a hammer blow:"—Round-trip first-class airfare.—Apartment housing in San Jose.—Daily nutritious meals.—Full training fees and equipment costs.—Health insurance."All covered by the fund," Yogan said, his eyes blazing. "When they come here, their only mission will be to train. They won't worry about rent, food, or medical bills. They won't have to tape up injuries with borrowed supplies. They'll be free to focus entirely on one thing: becoming stronger."He drew another box around the word "Team.""The expert staff we're hiring—strength coaches, physiotherapists, nutritionists—they'll officially become AKA employees. They'll serve the entire elite roster of AKA fighters, while prioritizing my preparation. That way not just me, but DC, Khabib, Luke, and every AKA fighter will benefit from world-class support. And our Chinese fighters will stand legitimately in the same space, receiving the same training and support as champions."When he finished speaking, the board was a dense network of arrows, boxes, and bold circles. The plan wasn't just ambitious; it was a blueprint for a revolution in training culture.For a few moments no one spoke. Isabella's eyes shone; she could already see the press releases, the documentaries, the transformation of Yogan's brand from athlete to architect of a movement. David stared at the numbers, trying to calculate but also clearly impressed. Even Dr. Phil looked moved, as though he had just witnessed a turning point in sports science.This plan, Yogan realized, solved everything at once. It eliminated any friction with AKA by making him not an outsider but an investor, a partner. It elevated his status from star athlete to stakeholder. And through the scholarship program, it gave young fighters from his homeland a platform far greater than anything they could have built alone. He would not be a solitary hero but a pioneer building a road for others.It was, he thought, not merely an investment but a game of hearts—a way to deepen loyalty and goodwill on all sides.Isabella finally broke the silence. "This is… genius," she said softly. "You're not just building a team. You're building a legacy."David adjusted his glasses, still staring at the board. "This changes everything," he admitted. "It's ambitious, but if we execute it well, the impact will be enormous."Dr. Phil nodded slowly. "It's the scientific model of the future," he said. "Shared infrastructure, elite support, data-driven training. You're creating an ecosystem, not just a camp."Yogan capped the marker and placed it on the tray. The rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the table had stopped; his movements now were sure and deliberate. He looked around at his team—the people who had been with him through the climb—and felt the weight of the moment."This is the path," he said simply. "We're not just adding bricks and tiles to AKA. We're adding bricks and tiles to the future of Chinese combat sports."And as the room filled with the low murmur of excited planning, Yogan felt a strange calm settle over him. The decision had been made. The course was set. The young man who once dreamed only of survival in the Octagon was now charting a course for generations to follow.Somewhere deep inside, he sensed that this move—this blending of personal ambition with a larger vision—would be remembered long after belts faded and records were broken. Belts would tarnish, records would be surpassed, but the structure he was about to build—the doors it would open—could stand for decades.He rose from the chair, looking once more at the championship belt on the wall. It caught the light again, but this time he didn't see it as a finish line. He saw it as a foundation stone."Let's get to work," he said.And with that, the era of adding bricks and tiles began.---
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