The Boxing God's face twisted in an expression resembling constipation, contorted in a bizarre manner.
At this moment, he no longer had the fierce, dominating aura he had before.
Just a second ago, while he was momentarily distracted, one of countless tiny stones flying like pouring rain hit a particular spot on his pants.
Right now, he's tightly clutching his legs, both hands covering the affected area, his face turning an embarrassing shade of black.
The dignified Eighth Hermit, revered in the international underground world, was unexpectedly struck in a vulnerable area, experiencing an egg-cracking pain and a heart-wrenching humiliation, making him want to tear the person in front of him into pieces.
Just as this thought arose, it was pushed aside, as more stones came rushing in from various tricky angles.
The Boxing God couldn't care less about appearances and could only dodge the stones in the most desperate yet effective way.
