Daisuke's eyes never strayed from the Russian man as he moved.

He never moved, himself, never flinched where he knelt at Souma's side. He never stopped pressing gently upon his Boss's roughly-bandaged arm, never gave that wound a chance to let more precious blood flow without a fight. He never let go of his pistol, held low in his other hand, barrel to the ground but ready to lift. There was much he didn't do, that he never did, for the entirety of this man's presence within the clearing.

But he [i]did[/i] watch. He [i]was[/i] ready. Anything this man tried to do, no matter the muttered protests of Souma beside him, Daisuke would be prepared for it. That's what he was: prepared, at the ready, clenched tight and set to be thrown. 

And unmoving, unspeaking, [i]ready[/i], he waited. While the man tended to Demidova where she bled, while they spoke quietly together in a tongue he couldn't begin to know. Soon, it became clear that this man wasn't going to threaten Souma in the least, far too concerned with his own. Comforting, but Daisuke didn't relax his vigil.

His did, however, tune out the words spoken between the man and Demidova, ignored the subtle glances and gestures they made. He couldn't understand the words, but it was clearly a private conversation. There was no need to listen, no need to try and understand. He would still watch, make sure nothing changed in their demeanor, but nothing in their words nor quiet movements were considered in his eyes.

Neither would likely notice the difference, being a subtle one clear only to the Fist himself. That didn't matter. [i]He[/i] knew the difference. [i]That[/i] made it important.

"Good." He spoke, finally, after the man had rose with Demidova in his arms. Now, Daisuke moved, slipping his revolver away and turning to Souma in earnest. Now, he busied himself in rewrapping the simple bandage about his Boss' arm, stripping the [i]obi[/i] from his own waist for good measure. Now he worked to bind his Boss' ankle, and raise him carefully to stand, weight fully supported by the Fist's own form.

"We are too." He didn't look back to where the man and Demidova had been, didn't bother to check if they were still there. He had his own work to do, a quiet exit he could reach from here. When Souma was safe, he might re-enter the compound, search for others, help the clan if need be. But smoke was drifting lightly in the breeze, now, the dim cries of battle and cracks of gunfire replaced by something that sounded faintly like... crackling wood.

"...Let's not meet again."

Daisuke whispered the words to an empty garden, as he and the wounded heir of the Takahiro clan fled their dying castle.