The wind carried by the arrow was so intense that it easily gave the illusion that the arrow itself was the storm.
Fisher's expression gradually became solemn, but his legs were anchored like steel nails, remaining stationary as his tattered Holy Land white robe flapped wildly in the wind.
In the next moment, he suddenly reached out and spun Ingrid, who was beside him, behind him, like a ballet partner in perfect synchrony, if one were to ignore Ingrid's expression of agonizing pain on her face.
"Ah, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts! My bones, my bones are broken!"
She cried out in pain, her face pale, but Fisher didn't have the time to care about her condition.
The deadly arrow was imminent; he turned his head to look at the sky while speaking to Ingrid,
"The magic you hold should have at least one or two for self-protection, right?"
"Eh? Yes, there is, but... hissing... it hurts..."
"That's good then."
