Planet Ignis | Chapter 9

... several cards trace their origin to that settlement. Frey the Orange hailed from the Anaxis Settlement in the South, and he carved his name in Ignian history as the pioneer of orange-level Bursts. It wasn’t that others lacked the potential; Frey alone stood among his peers, unwavering in his determination to push his body beyond its limits.

His terminal blaze ignited the very core of the Throne Room, leaving an indelible mark on his people’s collective memory. In recognition of his unparalleled achievement, a Longevity Chess card was posthumously granted in his name, forever immortalizing his legacy.

Some strategies where this card may prove helpful are...

From “The History of Longevity Chess” by Eli, the Flarewalker

Even though winter’s chill gripped the landscape, it was a beautiful, sunny day. The water fountain filled the bamboo piece slowly under the morning sun, its gentle flow defying the cold that tried to encase the pond in ice. Hitori sat facing the fountain, flipping through a well-loved book. Although he’d read it hundreds of times, it never lost its comfort. With each reread, he felt closer to his former self—the young man who’d written this very novel here in this garden. It was like glimpsing his past self, the memories embedded in each line.

As the bamboo filled with water, it tilted, releasing its contents into the pond below. Then, with a gentle thunk, it reset, striking a frost-covered stone. The sound was soothing, familiar. He had always loved the shishi odoshi his grandfather had crafted in his house; that’s why he chose to recreate it here.

Hitori stood up and slipped the book into his samue’s pocket, beginning a slow walk through the garden. Each leafless tree held a painting, each one capturing a scene from his past: his mother playing with him, his father teaching him to fish, summer days on the beach with his sister, visits to his grandparents. Every painting evoked a memory that brought both comfort and a touch of longing.

After walking through memory after memory, Hitori slid open the door, took off his shoes, and stepped inside—a perfect replica of his grandfather’s house. He went to the personal library, where he kept his favorite books. Finding the shelf for authors whose names started with “H,” he placed his book beside several others with his name on them.

After a relaxing hot shower, Hitori wrote his plans for the day on the fogged bathroom mirror with his finger. It was Tuesday. He’d already taken his morning memory walk. First, he’d visit his high school to review the contingency plans he kept stored in the shogi club room. Then, he would spend the rest of the morning preparing for the next thaw.

In the afternoon, he’d go to the university lab to work on the Tardus-Celer reconciliation project. With his day organized, he put on his lab suit, packed his lunch in the kitchen, and left the house. Like his father, he drove a red Mitsubishi Pajero.

Hitori turned on the radio, singing along to catchy tunes with lyrics altered to focus on genetics, physics, and mathematics. The chained tires rolled down the icy road he’d traveled countless times as a child. Giant ice sculptures lined the way, each representing moments from his life: his graduation, his first award, scenes from astronaut training. The familiar route stirred a pang of nostalgia, but he reminded himself of the beauty in winter’s white—a different kind of landscape he’d grown to appreciate.

As he entered town, Hitori parked in front of his high school. Inside, he went directly to the shogi club room. Playing shogi had always helped him think, so he set up a board, sat down, and moved pieces around, mulling over plans and contingencies. There’s no such thing as too much preparation, he thought.

After an hour, he headed to the music room, where he found the sheet music for the Seventh Thaw Symphony. Sitting at the piano, he began to play, each repetition pushing him closer to the speed he wanted.

After lunch in the high school canteen, Hitori drove to the replica of the University of Tokyo he’d built. Walking through the empty corridors of the science faculty building, he reached his lab and turned on the lights.

In the birdcage, colorful hummingbirds buzzed around, their wings moving so fast they seemed invisible. One playful bird flew upside down, catching Hitori’s attention and performing a few acrobatic loops as if to entertain him. He refilled their nectar, whistling a tune that seemed to amuse them.

Next, he went to the tank with the electric eel. Grabbing a net, he scooped a fish from a smaller aquarium and dropped it in. The eel shot toward it, stunning it with a charge before feeding. Hitori watched, making mental notes on its behavior.

In the refrigerated cage, an arctic ground squirrel lay peacefully in hibernation. Hitori marked the calendar: Day 131. Checking its temperature, he confirmed it was below freezing. Satisfied, he adjusted the settings.

He turned to the iguana’s habitat and observed as it basked in the red lamp’s glow. After noting its temperature, he adjusted the lamp to optimize its comfort.

With his animals checked, Hitori moved to the blackboard, its surface covered in equations and notes. He wanted to tackle the metabolism mutations again. His success with the Tardus mutagen was proven, but reconciling it with Celer posed a challenge. Using Celer for ignium digestion was like driving a car with no brakes; Tardus, on the other hand, was like moving downhill with only brakes, making acceleration unpredictable.

For centuries, he’d worked on Statera, a project aiming to balance Tardus and Celer without compromising genetic stability. His hopes lay in the last two cages. In one was the spotted salamander, Ambystoma maculatum, basking under a powerful light. The algae in its skin allowed it to derive energy directly from light. In the other, the oriental wasp, Vespa orientalis, buzzed beneath a similar light bulb. Its cuticle converted sunlight into electricity, fueling its activities.

These two creatures, with their unique adaptations, held the key to Statera. They could potentially stabilize the extremes of Tardus and Celer, mitigating the mutation risks. Unfortunately, he’d run out of celeria, the rare resource required to make the Celer mutagen.

The memory of his crew flickered to mind, bringing a wave of frustration. He had only managed to give them the Celer mutation before sending them off. Why did Schneider have to sabotage the project instead of helping?

A clap of thunder echoed, jolting him. Hitori rolled up his sleeve, feeling his arm—too warm. He touched his throat. Also warm. He glanced out the window, a dark storm forming on the horizon. This can’t be happening already. He’d planned on at least another sixty years.

Running to the calendar, Hitori calculated: he’d been asleep for fifty-four years and six months. With each freeze shortening, he estimated—fifteen minutes? The thunder grew louder, and the storm darkened. He had hours, maybe less.

Hitori sprinted through his Mind Palace to the Space Agency building he’d crafted as a base for re-entering reality. Donning his spacesuit, he entered the replica of the Phoenix. As he prepared to return, he focused, allowing his subconscious to fade and his conscious mind to sharpen.

The storm struck, and the ship trembled. Too soon, he thought, though he’d never allowed himself to be unprepared. He had anticipated the possibility of an early thaw, carefully devising strategies for any scenario. After all, time is a friend of preparation.

Chapter 10