Exhaling slowly, Cutter let his lungs stay empty for a few moments before filling them with the cool night air once more. His quarry remained unaware of any danger, the trio bickering about something obscured by the gentle wind. Stalking forward, Cutter kept low to the ground as he closed the distance. He scarcely noticed the placement of his feet now; he could avoid loose rocks and twigs ready to snap without conscious effort. Once near enough to make out their softly spoken argument—some drivel about latrine digging—he drew his nodachi from its oiled scabbard. As he did, it was as if he were overcome with an otherworldly force; his feet felt weightless, as if he were walking across clouds. His breath seemed to rejuvenate him, filling him with vigor for the task to come. Rising from his crouched stance, he stood mere paces behind now.

Lunging forward swift as a snake, Cutter brought his pommel down onto the rightmost bandit's helm with an echoing clang. Pivoting to his left, Cutter drove his nodachi into the neck and shoulder of the bewildered Greenlander before he'd even reached for his rusted excuse for a sword. Facing the last of his prey, Cutter stood ready and waited as the trembling Scorchlander raised his weapon to fight. The two stared at each other for what seemed like ages, time too distant to be truly considered or appreciated. Cutter remained cool and collected, hearing footsteps—as if approaching a stage—in the gentle pattering of blood dripping from his sword. His victim's ragged, rapid breaths betrayed him. Eventually, the dust bandit could bear the anticipation no longer, and with a scream of rage lunged at the masked assassin, sword thrusting blindly. For Cutter, the scream was bliss. It marked the start of the symphony, the sweet sound singing through his blade and into his soul itself.