Chapter 81 - Episode 80: The Man With the Longest Health Bar in the UFC

"Pfft!"A violent convulsion tore through Diaz's body. His face, already battered, flushed a deep purplish-red from the sudden, stabbing pain in his abdomen. Acidic bile rose up and spilled from his mouth uncontrollably.A perfectly placed blow to the liver—no fighter, no matter how tough, can overcome that with willpower alone. The body's instincts take over, curling inward, trying to retreat from the invisible blade inside.But Yogan's attacks did not pause. They came like a non-stop storm, fists and legs raining down without a breath between them.Just as Diaz's body froze from the agony, Yogan's left hook cut through the air with a whistling snap and landed flush on Diaz's jaw. Before the sound of impact even reached the ears of the crowd, a right uppercut followed, and then a low left kick that smacked against Diaz's thigh like a whip. Yogan had transformed into a machine built only for destruction, each strike connecting at precisely the point where it would hurt most.Speed. Power. Timing. Pure, distilled violence.Diaz's mind was still trying to issue commands, but his body could no longer keep up with Yogan's rhythm. He felt trapped inside a sealed metal drum being pounded from every side, fists and shins hammering at him, no air to breathe, no way to escape.Bed! Bed! Bed! Bed!The dull, booming sound of flesh and bone colliding echoed thickly inside the Octagon like the rapid drumbeats of an ancient battlefield.Diaz tried desperately to slip away, but each step back only led him into another trap. By the midpoint of the first round, his face was a crimson mask.A savage elbow from Yogan had shattered Diaz's high-bridged nose; blood poured from it like a faucet. A jagged cut had opened above his left eyebrow. Sweat mixed with the thick stream, blinding his left eye and painting the world a blood-red haze.His entire face glistened with sweat and gore."Oh my God!" Joe Rogan leapt up from the commentary table, clutching his head. "This is a one-sided massacre! Nate Diaz is like a motionless punching bag in front of Yogan! He's so slow—he can't keep up! Every single one of Yogan's attacks is landing! This is terrifying!"The initial excitement in the crowd shifted to disbelief, then to a kind of horrified awe. They watched the self-proclaimed Stockton Bad Boy—famous for his toughness—being dismantled in humiliating fashion by a featherweight champion who had only recently moved up in weight.A cold light flashed in Yogan's eyes. Before the fight he had promised to finish Diaz in one round. He intended to make good on that promise.Seconds ticked by. Yogan's focus sharpened. He waited, stalking, for the fatal opening.There.He lunged forward with a feint. Diaz's hands rose instinctively to block.Now!Yogan's right leg swung like a battle axe. It carved a vicious arc through the air and crashed toward Diaz's head—the high kick that could shake the world.Pat!The muffled sound was like smashing a ripe watermelon with a baseball bat. Diaz's head whipped violently to one side. The wild light in his eyes dimmed, then went out completely.The iron tree finally cracked. Diaz toppled backward, crashing onto the mat."Safe! Safe! Safe! Safe!"The entire hall erupted in a roar that was half-cheer, half-scream.Finished. Everyone thought the fight was over. No one could get up after a kick like that.A murderous glint flickered across Yogan's face. He stepped in to deliver the finishing blow, the strike that would seal the match.But just as his fist began to drop—"China! China! China!"The bell rang. The sound tore through the arena like a god descending.The bell had saved Diaz.Referee Herb Dean lunged between them, arms out, forcing Yogan back.Yogan looked down at Diaz lying motionless on the canvas, a hint of regret in his expression. Slowly he turned and walked toward his corner. No celebration, no taunt. To him, the ending had only been delayed.The audience sighed in unison, then erupted into even louder chatter."Oh my God! He made it through the first round! That high kick would have knocked anyone else out!""It wasn't him who saved himself—it was the bell!""Can he still stand up? I think his neck is broken from that kick!""Yogan is so strong! This isn't even the same level of fight! I'm starting to feel sorry for Diaz. How many more shots can he take?"In Yogan's corner, Coach Javier and DC Cormier thrust water bottles and towels at him, eyes bright. They knew victory was inevitable now; it was only a matter of time.Across the cage, Diaz groaned awake under Herb Dean's prompting. His team rushed to drag him onto his stool. A doctor stuffed cotton into his streaming nose while cutmen pressed ice packs to his swelling face, smearing hemostatic paste over the split skin.Ding!The second-round bell rang.When Diaz, wobbling like a ghost, rose from his stool and shuffled back toward the center of the Octagon, even Yogan felt a flicker of surprise.This was no longer simply "poor Diaz." His face was swollen like a pig's head. His left eye was nearly sealed shut. Fresh blood leaked from wounds that had only just been treated. He looked like a character from a horror film, staggering toward his doom."What luck," Yogan muttered to himself. "But that'll only get you a few more punches."He would give Diaz no chance. He would end this quickly.The Octagon is a place where anything can happen. Desperate comebacks are legend. But Diaz's ability to absorb punishment was even greater than Yogan had expected. He was like an unkillable cockroach, taking dozens of clean shots and still standing.Yogan realized a single punch would not finish him. Against such an opponent, only accumulated damage could shut him down.Very well.He decided to put on a violent art exhibition in Las Vegas—one that would belong entirely to him. He would showcase, without reservation, the Thai techniques he had drilled endlessly under the sun.Yogan shifted his stance. Arms high, head tucked, body slumped slightly forward—the classic Muay Thai posture.Diaz tried to taunt him with lazy punches, but Yogan no longer slipped or parried. He blocked them on his forearms, absorbing the glancing blows, then stepped forward suddenly, closing the distance like a blade sliding between ribs.Close range.Diaz reacted by wrapping himself around Yogan like an octopus, trying to drag the fight into his trademark cageside grappling.But Yogan had been waiting for exactly this moment.---The Grind of the Second RoundThe crowd leaned forward as the two bodies collided. Diaz's arms hooked around Yogan's neck and shoulders, searching for a clinch, for a way to slow the storm. Yogan's hips dropped, feet planted, balance like a rooted tree.With a sharp twist, he broke the grip, wedged an elbow inside, and fired a short knee into Diaz's ribs. A grunt escaped Diaz's throat, but he held on. Yogan turned again, using the fence to pivot, and suddenly Diaz found himself pressed backward.Another knee. Another elbow. Each strike precise, honed by months of drills.Commentators' voices rose above the roar:"Look at Yogan's composure!" Rogan shouted. "He's dismantling Diaz in the clinch now—this is the Muay Thai training we've heard about!"Daniel Cormier added, "Diaz is still on his feet, but he's absorbing tremendous damage. How long can he last?"Blood dripped from Diaz's face onto Yogan's shoulder, streaking down his back. The two fighters looked like warriors from an ancient mural, painted in sweat and crimson.Yogan's mind stayed icy. He felt the rhythm of Diaz's breathing, the tremor in his legs. Each movement broadcasted exhaustion.He shifted again, freed one hand, and cracked a right elbow across Diaz's temple. Diaz staggered, arms slipping. Yogan followed with a left knee to the body, then another elbow on the break.Diaz reeled, but still he would not fall.The crowd began chanting, a strange mix of admiration and dread. Some called for Diaz, others for Yogan. The Octagon floor was slick with sweat, the air heavy with the smell of adrenaline and iron.Yogan pressed forward, combinations flowing like a violent symphony. Left hook, right cross, body kick. Step off angle. Elbow, knee, punch. Every strike set up the next, no wasted movement, no mercy.Diaz swung back, wild but slow. A jab glanced off Yogan's guard. A looping hook whistled past his ear. Yogan countered with a teep kick to the midsection that doubled Diaz over, then hammered another right hand down the centerline.By the halfway mark of the second round, Diaz's health bar—the invisible gauge every fighter carries—looked impossibly long. Any other opponent would have crumbled minutes ago. Yet somehow, through blood and pain, he remained upright.Yogan's respect grew even as his assault intensified.He ducked under another desperate punch, slipped inside, and launched a spinning back elbow that grazed Diaz's cheek. Blood sprayed. The audience gasped.Still Diaz stood.Yogan's eyes narrowed. The art exhibition was almost complete. Now it was time to close the curtain.He feinted high, drawing Diaz's guard up, then slammed a low kick into the thigh. Diaz staggered sideways. Yogan pivoted, caught him in the midsection with a knee, and when Diaz bent forward, delivered a crushing uppercut.Diaz's head snapped back. His arms dropped for a heartbeat.The crowd's roar built like an oncoming wave.Yogan stepped in. Left hook. Right cross. Elbow. Knee. Each strike a drumbeat announcing the inevitable.Diaz swayed, barely conscious, but somehow still on his feet.The bell for the second round loomed.Yogan's fists blurred one final time. A hook to the body. A hook to the head. Another knee.The horn sounded. Ding!The referee darted between them again.Yogan exhaled slowly, stepping back. His eyes never left Diaz.The man with the longest health bar in the UFC still stood.---