With a nod, Concord sits himself down in a chair set beside the bed. Probably meant for some loved one to be waiting on their injured companion, but Concord will take it up in this situation. He's tired after that bout, rolling his own shoulders around casually. There's a bit of a grinding to his joints, that's just age and his withering health with the modern age back home. He'll live, he always does.

"It was well had," he agrees with respect weighing on in his tone, "I've been in that ring for days and not had a single challenge. Well, one I wasn't humoring. Couldn't hold back on you,"

Which leads him to believe,

"Are you some type of immortal? Not simply human, I can tell that much." He thinks he can, at least. He doesn't have a real concept of super-humans, just not of his time.