This trip bode trouble the very moment his sponsors ceased their support.

His ascension in power slow, but steady, Quebra Carolos, the reigning champion of his country's sport - Pankration - decided it was time to move on to something bigger. News of the Gaian Combat League's second season caught his eye, and the footage from its first iteration only sparked his interest further. The wrestler was adamant to go; his sponsors no less determined to have him stay in the local scene, where his dominance brought them large and reliable income, career planned out already for the next couple years.

After being stripped of almost all his earnings through court - petty revenge for breaking the contract - he was now left with barely enough money to make the trip, and only a matter of months to do so, crossing multiple borders and trekking through empires of planetary scale. The means to do so were there, but without anyone backing this trip, he had to pay, plan and and do all the paperwork himself.

And naturally, he found at times that it was easier to deal with on the illegal side of things.

So far, so good, however - even the occasional altercation, he managed to resolve. One particularly bad and still recent instance of messing with the crime involved Quebra punching, suplexing and putting face down into glass a group of border pass forgers, then proceeding to run off with a heap of incriminating paperwork. 

How did that happen? Simple enough: it only took so long until his pocket started running dry on money, which exposed the vulnerable underbelly of his ego to snark and jeering on topic of his failed career and withdrawn sponsorship at a most crucially inconvenient time. He had endured it for long enough, and was even certain at the time he could take more, just for the sake of getting done with it sooner, but when suggested by one of the forgers that he do some 'wet work' for their boss and 'put the muscle to use', as means for paying for the favor, the only reply even possible form him was, of course, that he would never let himself be "subordinate to a mere criminal".

Word for word, action for action, and he ended up fleeing, partial evidence of their extensive illegal activity on hands so that they would consider twice before filing charges for assault against him, engaging the law in an attempt to prevent Quebra crossing the border. Whatever other underhanded methods they may employ, he was certain it'd be nothing he couldn't handle - and by the time they got desperate enough to put him through some real trouble, he would have slipped out of their grasp already.

And so it happened, for the most part, the wrestler by now closer to Khaerros than ever, with said documents having been dumped just a couple minutes away from a border checkpoint, Quebra unwilling and finding no need to trouble himself with somehow carrying them through.

However, the snotty forger chap had been right about one thing: Quebra needed to do work and earn some change. With this in mind, he took a detour, having weighed his options and picked out of them all the city of Mekkina: the local haven and melting pot for all kind of cutthroats, mercenaries, private quasi-military organizations and the like, it's position near a cosmic transport nexus guaranteeing a crowd pieced together from a myriad places.

And where there were mercs, there was underground fighting: a long-lived tradition and flashy way to advertise oneself for the mercenaries and a way to make a quick buck for Quebra himself. Not that any of his opponents would refuse money, but a heavy pocket is all the wrestler wanted from this endavor, the reputation earned being a moot point for him.

Though reluctant to admit it, he knew that he was a nobody to the locals, so he wouldn't squeeze himself into the big leagues if he were a greased wedge. This meant having to resort to some of the more shady places, one of which Quebra was already on his way towards. Late evening, air chilly against his nigh naked body, his path was barely lit by the couple lampposts dotted here and there - those were fewer in the city's outskirts. Ahead of him he was a stone-paved square, one of the landmarks he was looking out for on his way. A couple dozen more yards, and he'd get the full view, squat and huddled houses out of his vision's way.

The wrestler walked onward, dry clapping of crystalline feet against cobblestone marking his approach; absentmindedly adjusting the strap of his sling-bag with all the documents and money left from his travels, he watched the house opposite him inch closer and closer with every step, anticipation of battle welling up in his chest as boiling milk running out the pot, nurturing a nervous excitement.