The Deadly Assassin Robin novel Chapter 1239

For 20 days, the Borealis night sky had been ravaged by blizzards. Then, suddenly, the storm stopped.

The thick, ancient clouds, once suffocating the land, cracked open. A brilliant, searing white light pierced through the darkness.

A full moon emerged, its icy glow cutting through the night.

Thousands of stars followed, each burning fiercely in the brief moment between seconds.

The moon's cold rays washed over the endless snowfield.

The thick smoke still coiled in the air, heavy with the stench of death.

Blood had frozen, solidifying into jagged ice.

Lifeless bodies, torn apart by explosions, littered the frozen wasteland.

Each shattered corpse was a stark reminder: peace had never existed here.

The law of survival had always been simple: the strong survive, the weak fall.

Civilization? Harmony? Beauty? Illusions. Mere facades built by the powerful to conceal the truth.

Only those at the top knew the unflinching reality. In the end, the strongest fist decided everything.

Moonlight glinted off Gustov's trembling body, casting a ghostly glow.

His arm—the one that had thrown countless punishing strikes—swelled with visible damage.

He understood now.

Robin had barely used 30% of his power during their exchange.

Had Robin gone all out, Gustov would've been nothing but a smear of blood after the first punch.

Gustov's fury erupted. "Divine Drakebane! Why didn't you use your full strength? Are you trying to mock me?!"

Robin's gaze flicked up, his eyebrow arched lazily.

"The reason I didn't use everything I had," he said smoothly, "is because I remember the bond you shared with my grandfather, Dragon Lord."

"Twenty punches of mercy are over."

"From now on, we fight for our own reasons."

"Get ready. I won't hold back."

Gustov froze, his rage replaced by a flicker of respect.

In his battle-hardened eyes, a brief spark of acknowledgment glimmered.

He sucked in a deep breath, gathering every ounce of his power.

His iron fist, forged through countless battles, clenched tighter, the force of 70 years of training coiling in it.

The punch came like an avalanche—unstoppable, relentless.

Gustov charged, his boots tearing through the frozen earth, leaving deep craters in his wake.

With every step, his massive frame rebounded, lifting three meters with each strike of his foot.

Beneath the cold moonlight, his hair whipped violently behind him.

He was a god of war, descending from the heavens.

He raised his fist, the raw, deadly power of centuries packed into the blow. It slammed toward Robin.

Robin stood unmoving, like a mountain, unshaken. With a single hand, he met Gustov's furious strike.

The impact was deafening.

A crack tore through the air.

Even the distant moon trembled, as if it, too, had felt the shockwave.

Gustov's massive body flew backward, soaring a hundred feet backward, his arm disintegrating midair into a spray of blood under the full moon's gaze.

Robin was already in motion, leaping through the air like a missile, charging for the fallen war god.

Before Gustov could even brace himself, Robin's fist slammed into his chest.

The sound of it was sickening.

Gustov's broad chest caved in with a sickening thud.

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