The ship was burning. The Gamers and the Vikings were trapped in a windowless storage room at the deepest end of the ship—they had tried to stop the smoke from filling the small space by using wet rags to block some of the cracks in the door. They kept throwing their last reserves of water against the door, hoping to hold back the fire for as long as possible.

  But the heat was increasing, and it was just a matter of time until they died a painful death.

  Tobias, who had almost delivered them the victory with his plan to fake his death and shoot one of the cannons, was crying. He looked at Arthur, whom he clearly idolized, and forced a smile and said:

  “It was a real goddamn adventure, wasn’t it?”

  Arthur looked at Tobias deeply. And then approached him, extending his hand towards the Gamer.

  “I said it once. I’ll say it again. It’s a fucking honor to die next to you.”

  Tobias laughed and shook Arthur’s hand. Then he hugged him fiercely.

  “It’s an honor to die next to you too. All of you.”

  Mark was sitting by himself in a corner of the storage room. He remembered back to the first day, when Tobias had shared with him that he regretted having lived a life of mediocrity. A life of cowardice. And he had set himself to live—and die—with courage.

  All the respect I got for the bloodied saber? Give me a chance, and I swear I’ll earn it, the Gamer had said.

  And he knew that Tobias was now facing death without regrets, after having proven his courage.

  Emily ran towards them and hugged Arthur and Tobias. She was crying too.

  Arthur extended his arms, encompassing them all—he had become a little bit like their older brother. Then he looked at Mark.

  “Care to join us?” he asked.

  Mark looked at them, still keeping his distance. In those few days, they had become his friends—no, more than that, what he felt towards Emily, Arthur, Liam, and Tobias was closer to family than friendship.

  And yet, Mark didn’t join them. He kept searching within himself, waiting for the moment.

  “Mark?” Arthur asked.

  Mark looked towards Bjorn. Their relationship hadn’t started well—with Mark pressing a dagger to the Viking’s throat to demand Erik Bloodaxe listen to his crazy plan. But in the last few days, although they hadn’t become friends, they had grown to respect each other.

  He knew Bjorn was intelligent—his mind was sharp and calculating. Among the Vikings, he was the second-in-command, and sometimes he quietly corrected the mistakes made by Erik Bloodaxe when anger, or melancholy, took control of the king.

  So it didn’t surprise Mark that the Viking knew what he intended to do—because after Arthur had wasted his Skill, Bjorn was the only one who could help him.

  Mark nodded. His [Traitor’s Premonition] no longer screamed in warning whenever he thought about what had to be done.

  “What are you doing, Mark?” Arthur insisted.

  Bjorn took Erik’s battle axe from the hands of the king—even half-unconscious, Erik resisted, unwilling to lose his prized weapon. But Bjorn insisted, and when he had the massive battle axe, he put the flat of the weapon parallel to the ground, offering it to Mark. The Viking’s muscles tensed in anticipation. They locked eyes—it was time.

  “Happy hunting,” the Viking said.

  Mark jumped over the flat of the massive battle axe, keeping an uncertain balance. Bjorn shouted:

  “[Power Strike]!”

  And Mark flew upwards, using his [Phantom Presence] to go through the roof of the storage room. Moving through the most absolute darkness only protected by faith, and the love for his people.

  It was close. Closer than it had ever been. He lost the sole of his left boot when his [Phantom Presence] exhausted itself before he had completely gone through the wooden planks.

  But he made it. He found himself in the darkness of the night, the starry sky above him, the smoke of the fire escaping through the cracks of the ship. And he fell to his knees, exhausted.

  But there was no time to lose—his people would burn alive soon. He used his feet to take off the boots while keeping his gaze fixed ahead, scanning the other side of the ship for the remaining Mongols—he heard some distant muttering, and one of the Mongols started coughing.

  Dagger in hand, he stalked toward them, using the smoke as cover. He had no more Skills left. No more tricks to rely on. Just himself and the bloodied weapon he carried.

  When he passed over the cannon bay, it was warm under his feet, and he hoped it wouldn’t collapse beneath him.

  The ship was burning, and Mukali waited for the end.

  He assumed that the strange dimension would collapse when one of the armies inside was completely defeated.

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  “Try to keep him alive,” he ordered his last uninjured soldier, who was carrying the injured soldier. “Maybe in this world you can come back from an injury like that. The Gamers seemed to recover very fast from their injuries.”

  He would have liked to discover their secret. How were they healing so fast? It had been uncanny to inflict a mortal injury on one of them, only to see him fighting as if nothing had happened just a couple of hours later.

  The soldier left his injured comrade on the floor, leaning his back on the ship’s railing. Then he walked toward the nearly empty barrel of water on one side of the ship—the one the Gamer hadn’t been able to tip over.

  And Mukali admired again how the Gamers had prepared for the battle—it had been brilliantly played.

  I will be honest with the Khan. Our enemies were strong and resourceful. A credit to the people they represented.

  Conquering the world wasn’t going to be easy if this was the caliber of rivals they were going to face.

  Mukali looked toward the other side of the ship, where the cannon bay was burning. In the darkness of the night, the smoke was pitch black, rising toward the sky. He couldn’t see very much into that zone, because the upper deck was organized on two levels; the lowest one was the one they were in, and the other one was a few feet above them, accessible through two small staircases also on the upper deck.

  But within the dark smoke, he thought he could see a darker shadow stalking toward them.

  Impossible…

  And then the Gamer who had started it all jumped towards them through the smoke.

  He was covered in soot, his face darkened by the fire and ash. But his eyes burned with fierce determination.

  He was no longer smiling.

  There were no more facades.

  He was a demon, hunting for Mukali’s soul.

  And for the first time since his childhood, the Mongol commander felt true terror.

  Mark looked from the smoke toward the three remaining Mongols. They were in the lower part of the upper deck, a few feet below him. Like himself, they seemed exhausted, hoping for the whole ordeal to be over.

  There wasn’t any time to waste. He couldn’t risk a prolonged fight—not with his friends still trapped in the storage room, fighting against the fire.

  So Mark jumped down from his vantage point, toward the Mongol trying to drink some water with shaky hands. There was barely any struggle—the Mongol was too tired, or terrified, to defend himself, and Mark plunged his dagger into the man’s throat.

  Then he looked toward the Mongol commander, who was standing without moving, looking at Mark as if he had seen some sort of demon. He hadn’t even unsheathed his saber yet.

  Mark walked toward the injured Mongol sitting on the floor, who was barely conscious, begging for water.

  Mark killed him by plunging his dagger into the soldier’s heart. He did it gently, as if delivering a remedy to ease the man’s suffering. The man stiffened for a moment before going slack in death.

  On his back, he heard the metallic whisper of the Mongol commander drawing his saber, and the steps on the wooden floor when the man started running toward Mark. Before he slashed wildly, the Mongol roared his fury.

  Sometimes there was no need for [Traitor’s Premonition]. Sometimes you just had to listen around you.

  Mark avoided the wild slash of the Mongol commander rolling to the side. And he stood up, his dagger in front of him, studying his opponent.

  They circled around each other for a couple of seconds, looking into each other’s eyes, waiting for an opening.

  And the final battle of the Glimpse of Valhalla began.

  The Mongol commander slashed towards Mark’s head.

  Mark ducked and jumped in to stab the Mongol commander and finish it all.

  The Mongol commander retreated a step and pushed him back with a kick to the leg, forcing Mark on the defensive with a series of rapid slashes that made him retreat walking back, desperate to find an opening.

  The difference in their experience showed when Mark hit his back against the burning door towards the lower deck—he screamed in pain when he felt the flames burning him. He had been pushed into a trap by the Mongol.

  The Mongol lunged, thrusting his saber in an attempt to impale Mark through the chest.

  Mark moved sideways, and the saber pierced through the shoulder, and for a moment the only thing still keeping him upright was the saber piercing through him and into the wooden planks of the ship.

  He shouted in pain. His dagger fell to the ground. The fire kept licking his back.

  Mark fought against the saber until he managed to dislodge it from the wooden planks, and then from his own body.

  As soon as he was free, he fell to the ground, on his knees.

  I cannot lose, Mark thought, fighting against the darkness trying to engulf him. I cannot fail them…

  The Mongol had retreated as if surprised by his own success. He took from the ground Mark’s dagger and approached carefully, ready to finish his enemy, but fearing a new trick.

  But Mark had no more Skills to use. No more tricks to save him.

  Only his willingness to sacrifice his life for his people…

  And that was enough.

  He used his last scraps of strength to tackle the Mongol, ignoring the thrust on his shoulder made by the surprised commander. Mark kept pushing until they stumbled against the ship’s railing and tumbled into the dark ocean below.

  Both crashed into the freezing water together, still struggling against each other while sinking further and further, dragged into the depths of the ocean by the weight of their clothes.

  The freezing water numbed Mark’s body, bringing a strange sense of relief. He barely felt anything when the Mongol commander pulled out the dagger from Mark’s shoulder and stabbed him in the stomach.

  Mark bit down on the neck of the Mongol, hoping to rip his throat, but only managed to rip open part of the skin. The water around them started to fill with blood. Mark could feel it warmer than the ocean’s water.

  The pained Mongol, eyes wide and terrified, stabbed him in the stomach again. Mark shouted, losing the air in his lungs, and the mongol broke free from his grasp. Mark tried to grab him again. The mongol struggled and got away. Mark raised his eyes toward the surface while he sank deeper and deeper.

  Above, he could see the shimmering fire of the ship. Another explosion rippled in the side of the ship; the other cannon seemed to have gone out—it sounded extremely muffled to Mark. The ship was getting farther and farther away…

  He extended his hand, reaching up.

  Toward his friends.

  The mongol was struggling to break into the surface; he was starting to falter.

  Mark felt himself starting to lose his consciousness.

  And he wondered if his friends were already dead.

  Then his mind shattered into a storm of visions—impossibly vivid images of a world he still hadn’t explored.

  He saw suffering extending through countries he had never met until there was only darkness. The cries of children echoed in his ears, their mothers begging for mercy that would never come.

  He saw monsters awakening for the first time in millennia. He saw glorious heroes standing together against them.

  He saw gods ripping each other apart and, in their madness, destroying the world.

  And he saw himself, looking deeply into the eyes of a man he had never met, and plunging his dagger deep into the man’s heart. They were in a strange, luxurious tent. He could feel his own eyes covered in tears, hearing the shouts of alarm from the guards when they realized what was happening.

  The man was dying, and Mark whispered:

  “Sorry, brother. Sorry.”

  He fought against those images, trying to return to reality. And through his closing eyelids, he saw the Mongol a few yards above him. Unmoving. Floating in the darkness of the ocean, the burning ship shimmering above.

  Then Mark saw the blue light of the cube shining on the ship, extending through the ocean, reaching for him.

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