The clear sound of slapping continued to ring out.
In the eyes of outsiders, the scene unfolding before them was extremely terrifying.
An extraordinarily beautiful woman, her hands moving rapidly, leaving an afterimage, repeatedly slapped the face of a fat man.
The man was already quite large.
And now, he looked even more like a pig-headed figure.
Seeing him in this state, if people hadn't been present before, they'd hardly recognize him as An Qimao, the suburban nouveau riche.
Toward the end, President An's face was unrecognizable, covered in blood.
The crowd couldn't imagine it.
How could a woman have such overwhelming strength?
Didn't her hands hurt?
Another obvious question was.
Why didn't President An resist?
Didn't it hurt at all?
What people didn't know was.
President An was in pain, so much pain he wanted to die.
But what good would that do?
Somehow, every time the woman's hand came down, the power in his body was scattered.
