Then the door opened, and out strode the cripple. He followed the noise, tracing the gunshots and pacing himself slowly. One foot forward, metal thud, drag. Repeat. Middle-aged, with fair skin and salt and pepper hair. He was announced by the rhythmic thump and drag of his crutch and exoskeletal leg brace, both gracing one side of his body. The man wore simple khakis with a casual button-down, with only a simple cardigan over his shirt. In other words, a far cry from the majority of the Dojo. In a place where limbs where replaced by superior prosthetics and powerful healing magic was commonplace, a cripple - or anything of the like - was rare. On his belt was a leather holster for a simple semi-automatic pistol. No other weapon. The older man looked at the spectacle with curiosity, eyes finally settling on the blue aura that held the bullets in place. "You know, for a place where literal gods lounge and screw about, it's kind of surprising to see a bunch of goons mugging a young woman. So what happened?" He stood his ground, not moving in front of the line of fire just yet. He wanted to see what the situation really was.