In stark contrast to the gruesome occasion which had shunted Darvish across the dimensional rift a second person was deposited in the adjacent hall still slumbering. It was the prince's tortured cry which jarred Souji Okita to conciousness. Warriors were trained to gather their wits and weapons instantaneously upon rousing. The scream propelled him to reverse guard in a matter of seconds. A single beat of his startled heart was sufficient to observe the bizarre foreign architecture and lack of familiar belongings. Yet Souji did not panic. Even when he had begun coughing blood the crisis had been met with utmost poise and rationality. The young ronin had lost his nerve perhaps twice in the entirety of his existence. Even a continent's worth of tempered steel erected as walls would not incite such foolishness.
His geta had apparently been confiscated so Souji was forced to sprint barefoot toward the distressed echo. When the wounded man materialized like a shade the ronin slid to a halt. Blood moistened the air with its metallic tang. A hasty gamble was made in sheathing his katana. Wounded men were often more dangerous than sound ones. With faint rustling of cloth Souji knelt in front of the stranger with unobtrusive slowness. “Please, allow me to see your wound.” His tone was gentle yet offered no invitation to argument. Delicate hands reached to carefully fold around the makeshift tourniquet. A cursory examination of the dark stain assured that no arteries had been cut. “I need to apply pressure to help stop the bleeding. Alright?”