Massaging his temples, Horn sat up in the gloomy daylight.
Yesterday had been too reckless. By the time he fired the third arrow from Ferdinand's Great Bow, his vision was already darkening.
But Horn was still not satisfied; he felt he still had plenty of strength left.
With the thought "let me see your limits," he forced himself past the dizziness and shot the fourth arrow.
Perhaps he was too cocky and lost his bearing; as soon as Horn released that arrow, he regretted it.
In that instant, he felt as though his skull had been pried open, and a ladle of scalding hot and spicy oil vinegar sauce was poured inside, a pain indescribably piercing.
Horn even wished he could take up Cloud Snow and chop off his own head.
It was excruciating.
He even somewhat understood why those witches might go mad.
Sisters, I'm telling you, I empathize deeply.
