Koumyou can't say much about the state of Genjo's skin; he's referred to himself more than once as a skeleton that went through a wood chipper. They both have that Sanzo priest build of all wiry muscle and no padding, not even healthy padding, and scars as far as the eye can see.

The older priest's come from his much harsher temple brat background, his insane training at Taisouji, and guarding two sutras for over two decades. Genjo's, of course, from the even more hellish state of the world in his time, his travels through it, and before -- from his years as a feral brat in grieving and murdering in the mountains by himself.

So Koumyou just nods, like this is just confirmation, although he does eye what he can see of that burn now that his son is showing a lot more skin.

"Here," Koumyou pulls another vial out of his ARMs band, "so the salt doesn't get into any of that."

Silly frolicking and forcing his son to tag along will wait a moment, first; papa fussing.