65 It’s Not Shameful to Lose to Him: Connor Takes the Fight and Cashes In

The night settled in as Ye Chen prepared for sleep, hoping for a peaceful end to the day. Just as he succumbed to the comforting embrace of slumber, a sudden vibrancy disrupted the stillness—his phone rang insistently.

Catwoman: Why haven't you replied to my messages in days?

A flicker of realization washed over Ye Chen. It dawned on him that, right after the match, he had indeed noticed Catwoman's texts, yet the meticulous care of treating his leg injury had pushed thoughts of responding to the back of his mind. Days had slipped away, consumed by the undertow of recovery.

Pulling up the conversation, he revisited the messages she'd sent the day of the fight.

[Catwoman: I finally saw you get beaten, haha…]

[Catwoman: Show me your injuries. I want to see how you feel after being beaten.]

The series of cheeky emojis that followed left him momentarily speechless. With a smirk creeping onto his face, he replied, "If you want to see my legs, just say the word. I mean, I've admired yours more than a couple of times. I won't hold back."

Moments later, he snapped a picture of his bruised thigh, the remnants of the fight still visible, and sent it over. Though the healing process had made strides, the memories of the injury remained etched in shades of blue.

In the hotel that the crew had arranged, Catwoman had just finished her shower, slipping into a comfy large T-shirt. With one hand she dabbed at her damp hair while holding her phone in the other.

"Where's the news? Did something happen to him?" Her heart raced nervously, until—just like that—the phone vibrated, and her angst transformed into a much softer expression upon glancing at Ye Chen's latest photo.

A gasp escaped her lips as she faced the bruised thigh displayed in the image.

"You're hurt so badly, and you're still able to joke..." she murmured softly, before tapping out another message. "You can't even dodge a kick, yet you drink heavily and pretend it's business as usual."

Suddenly she shifted gears, her curiosity piqued. "Speaking of which, why haven't you replied for so long? Were you too busy admiring Odalia?"

Ye Chen chuckled and typed back promptly, "Right across from me is Justin Gaethje, the king of the low sweep. At the end of the day, I'm human too, you know? Do you seriously think I'm some superhero from one of your nation's movies?"

He followed up with, "I got back a while ago. Just got caught up and forgot to reply. I'm in New York right now."

Their banter held a sense of ease, despite the underlying truths that echoed between them. Ye Chen found himself relishing these exchanges; a breath of normalcy amidst his recovery.

Although he enjoyed the light-hearted teasing with Catwoman, his words rang true. The disparity among fighters at the top level isn't monumental—it's the injuries that tell the true story of battles fought and risks taken. Just look at Khabib: a legendary fighter undefeated with 29 victories, yet behind that façade lay knee issues, broken ribs, and plenty of scar tissue from endless training sessions.

"So, be a little more careful, will you?" Catwoman replied softly after considering what he had said. Intrigued, she shifted the conversation again. "By the way, speaking of superheroes, who's your favorite actor from our side of the world?"

Without a hint of hesitation, Ye Chen replied, "Nicholas Cage, without a doubt."

Catwoman's excitement bubbled over. "What about the actresses?"

Ye Chen chuckled, envisioning his answer. "Well, I like Monica and Nicole—they're both stunningly beautiful."

"Okay, okay, I get it," she rolled her eyes theatrically. "You like beautiful women."

Then, her enthusiasm returned. "By the way, there's a costume party coming up for my friend's birthday. Are you interested? You're in New York now and looking a bit lonely—don't think I haven't noticed." Her playful emoji punctuated her teasing.

Ye Chen paused to consider. He had never been too keen on lavish upper-class outings, but the thought of meeting this intriguing netizen persisted in his mind. At twenty-six, he was far from domesticated... Even though he hadn't seen her face yet, he couldn't dismiss the allure of her figure from the photos they exchanged.

Though his focus was solely on recovery and training, life was offering him a break, and maybe—just maybe—it was time to integrate some fun into the mix.

The next few days were largely about taking it easy, as his doctors recommended no strenuous activities. Consequently, Ye Chen found himself spending hours each day chatting online, engaging in friendly banter with fellow fighters, especially Connor and Paddy—the two masters of trash talk.

At times, he imagined he could reach through the internet and give them a piece of his mind, but instead, he let their good-natured ribbing entertain him. As the buzz intensified around him, fan battles surged in the social media arena.

Ye Chen discovered that his following had eclipsed Paddy's, with fans defending him fiercely, especially as he'd been on a remarkable winning streak. While both he and Connor were garnering significant attention, the discussions often turned combative—who was the strongest, who was afraid to fight.

The hype surrounding him was palpable. Each tendency to over-exaggerate drew in more voices. Even the debates about how fighters avoided confrontation seemed eerily similar to those within his own country's fighting circles.

Meanwhile, back at UFC headquarters, Connor reclined in Dana's office, his cigar adorned with an aura of contemplation. His demeanor was serious as he stated, "I still want to come back and settle the score with Diamond. There's something thrilling about a revenge match. If I could, I'd want Khabib too; the fans have never ceased wanting that fight."

Yet Dana's face expressed a mix of regret and calm acceptance. The second round between Connor and Khabib remained a dream—which was "the greatest shame" for him as a promoter. Given this, Connor's popularity had diminished since his peak, and Dana was hopeful.

"Listen, if you're not fighting Khabib, I hope you can square off against Ye Chen instead."

Connor blinked, immediately on guard. "Dana, do you really think I'm being prepared to boost Ye Chen's profile? I'm not some stepping stone."

But Dana just smiled, stressing the importance of boosting their brand without compromising Connor's reputation. "Look, our market analysis clearly shows that Ye Chen has surged to nearly four million fans within a year, making him an ideal partner for your return."

There was a moment of unease as Connor weighed the ramifications. Would fighting Ye Chen really be a blemish on his esteemed career? Would losing to this current phenom—indisputably at the top of his game—diminish his legacy?

Ultimately, the prospect of fighting Ye Chen offered a chance for redemption. Someone on the same level, not merely a stepping stone.

"Make no mistake, what we have here is an opportunity," Dana elaborated. "If you lose to Ye Chen, people won't question your prowess like they did with Paddy or previously with Khabib. Losing to a rising star—it's not shameful."

Time drifted by in which Connor found himself swimming in nostalgia, considering his past glories, his reign as champion, and the ecstatic moments in the spotlight. Yet, he had also strayed—seduced by fame and flattery, losing ground.

"Three months. I'll reclaim my former glory—or even exceed it," Connor proclaimed, his fighting spirit kindled anew.

Dana watched with a glint of satisfaction as Connor exited. Connor was both a beloved figment of the sport and a powerful bargaining chip in their promotional strategy.

Ye Chen remained blissfully unaware of the brewing storm. He focused on his recovery, continuing his training alongside refining his techniques through the simulation space. With Gage as his training partner in practice simulated fights, he pressed forward—defying limits as he incorporated various low sweeps into his arsenal, bridging the gaps in his arsenal.

Days passed swiftly, and on the eighth day in New York, Catwoman's message popped up unexpectedly and pulled him from his training trance.

Catwoman: Which mask will you choose?

Ye Chen: Mask?

Catwoman: Masquerade masks, silly! Everyone's going to wear one.

Ye Chen embraced the intrigue. Deciding he could use the diversion, he replied, "Help me choose, please. I'm lost in this area."

Against the backdrop of getting better each day, the thought of attending the masquerade, with all its possibilities, excited him.

Catwoman: I've got a good one picked out for you! Just send me your address, and I'll make sure it arrives at your door.

Ye Chen hesitated. "Ah? But if you pick it, how will I know who you really are?"

Catwoman's wink was palpable through the screen as she quipped, "If you need to find me, you better have good instincts. Just let go and enjoy the night. There'll be plenty of beauty around."

With a new sense of energy coursing through him, Ye Chen typed back, "Let's do this. I'll send you my address."

As the currents shifted, both Dana and the fans heightened the anticipation for the showdown ahead—one that would reshape the landscape of the fight world.

In the roaring dance of digital publicity and fan engagement, Ye Chen, oblivious, continued his road to self-discovery, sharpening his skills and preparing for what awaited just around the corner.