Zarkon was a good leader. He didn’t just sit back and let his men do all the work, he didn’t command them without any personal experience in the matter. No, he trained alongside them, he went on the expeditions that were local to Diabazaal–as much as he might’ve liked to support his armies firsthand, he couldn’t very well leave the throne room empty for too long of periods outside of the occasional interplanetary trip for a meeting or collaboration. He did what he could, and it not only won the people over but it fostered a casual environment with his soldiers, the squads he trained with on the regular. His men didn’t go easy because Zarkon was Emperor, they knew that they wouldn’t be punished for coming out on top during a sparring match. Although, that did sometimes cause a little issue. He never sustained too many injuries or anything too threatening, but it wasn’t exactly his first visit to the infirmary.

With too many people falling off of him, he made his way through the blooms of castle staff to the royal infirmary to get treated. A practice sword duel had landed him with a few nicks and scrapes and a large gash from elbow to shoulder, cutting rather deep into his bicep. He’d be fine, if not a little sore and with a discoloured scar marking his purple skin. On the trip over, he’d bound the wound lazily and was basically holding it more or less shut, all but used to the pain given the length of his trip from the field outside castle grounds into the nurse’s office.

He needed stitches, he needed stitches and bandages and to take a rest. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t handled before, he wasn’t worried, just a bit grumble-y every time the antiseptic burned the raw flesh in the open slash. He had his claws pressing hard against the edge of the sterile bed, crinkling the paper under his large palm.