The next few minutes Cutter heard only the song of battle, the clashing of steel on steel singing its beauty to him, and the wet sounds of flesh and blood a soothing contrast to the strong sounds of metal. Enraptured by the dance, he found himself staring down the Dust King, sword drawn. In his periphery he could see only fallen soldiers, and the music stilled. For a moment there was only his breath, sucking in the sticky air and not quite filling his lungs. The King raised his oversized saber in one extended arm, shaking it so the rings rattled. "And now, you die, puny upstart. It's a shame you've no horns to cut off; I'd love to send some to your foster family. Your scalp will have to do." The King's voice was steady, if he feared death he hid it well. But Cutter hadn't even heard his full threat; the music swelled to drown out all else once more.

Letting the King make the first move, Cutter stood statuesque. Grunting, the bandits' leader drew his saber back, readied himself, then attacked. A low, sweeping strike—but a feint. The hilt was too high, and the sword would be drawn upwards rather than towards the leg. Strafing to his left, Cutter leaned backwards to avoid the blow, then flicked his own blade downward. He felt it catch, and quickly drew backwards, cutting—but the sparks betrayed that he'd hit only armor. Suddenly stars appeared as he stumbled even more to the side; and he noted his foe returning his gauntlet to his sword. Shaking his head, Cutter righted himself. Although the Dust King had learned to compensate for the sluggishness of his oversized blade, he was still much slower. Cutter brought his own sword overhead, committing to a downward strike. It was parried, as he'd anticipated—his follow-up was to quickly drag the tip back before thrusting it the man's heart. As the point pierced the rags, Cutter felt it deflected by a heart protector, but found purchase in the flesh below.