Jumping out of range, the hunter kicked the sleeping stickman towards the Scorchlander. Clumsily tripping over his friend, the brigand tried to right himself to parry a slash he knew would come. He saw it was already too late; the sword was mere inches from him, and a flash of searing heat scorched his left elbow before being replaced by the tingling of numbness. Shocked and stunned, he could do nothing but look on in horror as his silent assailant drew the tip of his sword back in a circle, drawing another line of terrible pain across his heavy front leg. Collapsing to his knees, the Scorchlander tossed his sword away and raised his remaining arm defensively to yield. No deathblow came. When he dared to look up, the beast still stood in front of him, sword poised over his shoulder in a ready stance. "Fight. Live, truly live for once in your pathetic life, so that you may die justly."

Such scenes marked most nights for the past month. Cutter was well along the path of perfecting the hunting of vagrants and marauders roaming the land. He himself was considered such a plague upon civilization at times, and was driven from the Shek Kingdom into the Holy Nation. But Cutter wasn't discriminating in his hunting; any crimes were secondary to his true intentions. When forced to town for a bed in bad weather or to purchase new supplies, he'd bring bounties in to pay for them. The cats began to stack up, the local enforcers covering his costs with a mere fraction of their rewards.