Mukali stared at absolute defeat for the first time in his life.

  The fat gamer had played dead and waited for the right moment to throw one of his magic fireballs, which ignited a cannon and tore through Mukali’s soldiers.

  Mukali tried to control his silver horse, which was going wild from all the noise and blood surrounding it. The Mongol commander hit his head against the roof of the cannon bay.

  For an instant, he was tempted to charge directly towards the enemy, hoping for a quick death.

  Anything was better than the shame consuming him. He had lost his men. He was losing control of his horse.

  His [Phantom Steed] Skill had seemed like a blessing from the gods when he had received it a few hours before.

  He came from a nation of riders, and the possibility of always having a horse, provided by the gods themselves, had seemed like the most generous of gifts.

  For a moment, he had seen a clear path.

  He would triumph here. And although the cost had been high, the knowledge he had acquired would help temper the Khan’s rage.

  His plan of flanking the choke point the Gamers had organized had gone well—first, one of his Archers, who had received the Skill [Flawless Aim], had been lowered down the side of the ship with a rope so he could shoot through one of the portholes, silently killing whoever was keeping guard. Then, they had enlarged the porthole trying to make as little noise as possible. And to give heart to his demoralized soldiers, Mukali himself had been the first to enter the ship.

  The plan had worked. The enemy had been forced to retreat from the brutal kill zone they had designed, hiding behind a door—where Mukali assumed they had hidden the water and food.

  But even then, their enemies had succumbed to the Mongols’ might.

  And for an instant, when he had charged through the door on his [Phantom Steed], as if he had been a conqueror of legend, he had dared to dream.

  To dream of glory.

  To dream of the Khan’s forgiveness.

  And now… defeat. The bodies of his men were bloodied and mangled by the brutality of the point-blank cannon shot. Only two of his soldiers seemed to have survived: one of them was kneeling on the ground, holding his stomach, where part of the shrapnel had lodged itself. The other had miraculously survived with barely a scratch.

  Their enemies were still on the other side of the cannon bay—as if still not fully believing their own victory.

  Even in that, they show more wisdom than I have. Maybe if I hadn’t underestimated them, I wouldn’t have been defeated like I have.

  But Genghis Khan was one of the greatest generals in history. And Mukali hadn’t become one of his most trusted lieutenants by luck.

  Even in the face of absolute defeat, he saw a path to change the tide of battle.

  One last gambit to finish it all.

  To avenge his men.

  Mukali dismounted the silvery, miraculous horse.

  “Bring me a burning log, soldier,” he ordered his last uninjured man.

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  And please, forgive my failures...

  He looked at the phantom horse and grabbed it by the mane to make sure it wouldn’t escape. With his other hand, he reached for a bag of gunpowder.

  He would show the despicable gods of this world what he thought of their “gift”…

  Mark couldn’t believe it. Tobias had used a [Fireball] to ignite one of the cannons. And the cannon, which they had filled with shrapnel, had torn through the Mongols at point-blank range, leaving behind a trail of shattered, bloodied bodies.

  Only a couple of Mongols seemed to have survived the blast, staggering back from the slaughter of their comrades. One clutched a broken sword, eyes wild with fear; the other was on his knees, part of the shrapnel apparently lodged in his stomach.

  Tobias crawled away from the destruction he had caused, trying to keep his distance from the dazed Mongol commander, who hadn’t been in the path of the cannon. The Mongol commander didn’t even seem to notice the Gamer escaping from his reach.

  The Mongol dismounted from his silvery horse and stood next to it, grabbing it by the mane. The phantom stallion had gone mad with the brutal noise, the smell of blood, the cries of pain—bucking and fighting against the Mongol commander.

  The Mongol gave a curt order to his last uninjured soldier. There was a sense of fatalism in his gestures, in the expression on his face.

  The cannon bay had filled with acrid smoke, and some small fires had started on the walls of the ship. The Mongol soldier grabbed a burning log and approached his commander.

  Tobias reached the storage room and joined the others, who were too stunned by the sudden change of their luck to even congratulate the hero.

  “This is our chance!” Arthur shouted, taking a couple of steps towards the Mongols. “Let’s finish it now!”

  They were going to win…

  Against all odds, they were going to survive.

  Tobias’s [Fireball] had saved them…

  The horse tried to run away from the Mongol commander. But he kept grabbing it by the mane, forcing the horse’s head down. He was strong—and managed to stop the animal from escaping just with the strength of one of his arms.

  In a fast movement, the Mongol commander grabbed a bag of gunpowder from near one of the cannons, and he threw it over the horse. He took the burning log his soldier was offering—the man seemed a little terrified of his commander.

  The commander forced the animal to face the Gamers with a strong pull of his arm.

  Mark and the others had been advancing towards the Mongols. And for a moment, Mark and the commander looked at each other through the cannon bay. And the commander no longer seemed furious—he acknowledged Mark with a nod, as if he had earned the Mongol’s respect. Then the Mongol looked again toward the horse he was holding.

  “Stop him!” Mark shouted, starting to run towards the horse when he understood what the Mongol was planning.

  The Mongol commander approached the burning log to the horse, burning it alive.

  Then he let the horse free to stampede toward the Gamers.

  The terrified, agonizing animal jumped around the cramped cannon bay, hitting every wall, extending the flames, desperate to escape the fire consuming it.

  The horse hit racks of cannonballs, making the iron munitions crash to the floor, rolling aimlessly. It also buckled over containers of gunpowder, which exploded, sending a shockwave through the ship—forcing the Gamers and Vikings to throw themselves to the ground to avoid the splinters of wood flying through the air.

  From the ground, Mark and the others braced themselves for the maddened horse’s charge, but it collapsed onto its front legs just moments before reaching them.

  It seemed to have suffered too much damage, and it vanished like an afterimage, as if it had never been there. Its suffering eyes staring directly at Mark while they disappeared.

  The only testament of its existence, the brutal fire consuming the cannon bay, condemning the few Gamers and Vikings remaining to be burned alive.

  “Back….” muttered Arthur, as shaken as everybody else. “Everybody move back…”

  They retreated towards the storage room. Mark was the last one to enter, and from the door, he tried to find some way out, some way to escape from the fire, but the cannon bay was completely engulfed in flames. The heat was brutal, and thick smoke stung his eyes, blurring his vision.

  He looked through the fire at the Mongol commander, who was helping his two remaining soldiers get away from the cannon bay, away from the fire. They were already in the hallway filled with the corpses of their comrades. And they walked like defeated men. Their victory didn’t bring them any joy—the cost had been too high.

  A moment later, somebody dragged Mark back into the storage room, and Bjorn closed the door, trying to keep the fire away.

  So close… Mark thought, feeling despair when the door closed in front of his face. We were so close…

  But they had been defeated. The smoke was already starting to creep into the little room through the cracks of the door. Outside, the fire licked at the door, making the wood crackle under the heat.

  They were going to burn alive.

  “Fuck!” Mark shouted, kicking a wooden cradle filled with the food they had hoped would give them the victory. “Fuck!”