Cutter sought such successes in the sizable swamp. He nearly found them, too—a ruin, still largely unravaged by time or looters. Forcing his own entry with saws, crowbars, and rope, Cutter found his hope for heaps of loot dashed—for the interior had been colonized by massive spiders. Careful to avoid their ire, he managed to pilfer only a small piece of strange machinery—in the intricate style of Skeletons. The prize didn't seem enough to truly impress, although it wasn't without value. A trader in the town of Shark offered him a backpack full of booze and narcotics for the relic. Accepting may have been a mistake—Cutter had no idea what it was truly worth. But he did know how much selling such vices could make him in the United Cities. He agreed, and by the time he returned home to Clownsteady, was richer than anyone he'd known.

The first thing he did was buy entry into the Shinobi, of course. But as he stood atop their tower, looking over his home, it all felt hollow. The wind was too cold, the walls smaller than he remembered, and the murmured sounds of the people below distant and ethereal. But somewhere, far away and from hard to find the direction of, he thought he heard a vibrant song—just one musician, pouring his heart into the strings, setting the stage of some story not yet told. And that, was what Cutter wanted now. Not the praises of people who scarcely knew him, or just wanted to partake in his newfound wealth—rather, the ecstasy of battle, the near-divinity of letting the sword and song control him, devoting himself to the art and losing himself within it.