The cabin lights had been dimmed. Outside the window was only darkness. At an altitude of ten thousand meters, the atmosphere lay buried beneath thick clouds that swallowed the stars. Only the red navigation lights at the wingtips blinked in steady rhythm. Most of the passengers were wrapped in blankets, sleeping. The meal trays had been cleared away. Only the sound of a film leaked from the headphones of those passengers who hadn't inserted earplugs. Ibuki Toranosuke could not sleep. Seven hours had passed since departure from Tokyo. His seat reclined, he stared at the dark ceiling. His short black hair pressed slightly against the headrest, and his deep brown eyes gazed toward the night window, reflecting nothing. The old scar on his left cheek ached faintly in the cabin's dry air. Sleepless nights always did this to him. He slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket. His fingertips touched stone. After a moment's hesitation, he drew it out. The seat beside him was empty. The passenger across the aisle was completely asleep. Toranosuke placed the stone in his palm and turned away from the window. In the cabin's dim light, the dark indigo stone glowed quietly. It pulsed. Slowly, rhythmically. Brightening, darkening, brightening again. A steady pulse. Toranosuke watched the light in silence for a while. Before anyone could come to the adjacent seat, he returned the stone to his inner pocket. The phosphorescent ore—that stone which modern geology had refused to classify—he pressed it into his chest along with the memory of three years of investigation accumulated on the walls of a room. He recalled the last words sent by the crew of the Nordaria. "Unexpected geological anomaly detected in the southeastern ice shelf. Investigation extended"—the official report of August fifth. Twelve days later, communications ceased. And the official statement came: hull compression from ice pressure, all crew lost at sea. With no bodies found, no major hull components recovered, the search was called off after fifty-three days. The Ryouhyoukai—fifty-seven years old, Japan's oldest private mountaineering and polar rescue organization—had complied with that termination. He understood now that Representative Touuma Gengo had chosen to maintain the agreement with the Boreas Consortium. For three years, he could not accept it. What he could not accept was not merely emotion. Circumstantial evidence had accumulated. The circumstances of the communication loss. The bodies never found. And the fact that Varna Ice Shelf had been designated an environmental conservation special zone immediately after the search was called off. The Boreas Consortium—the international public-private complex that oversees resource development and research in the Arctic—had effectively sealed off civilian access to the missing vessel's area. The timing was too precise to be coincidence. Yet there had been no proof. Now, he held it in his hand. The GPS logger's data card was in a waterproof case inside a card holder. The coordinates of the final recording were not the "open water north of Varna Ice Shelf" that the official report claimed, but deep within the ice shelf itself—approximately two hundred meters from the outer edge of Torve's Eye. The massive meltwater cavity in the southeastern Varna Ice Shelf, roughly six hundred meters in diameter. Estimated depth of over three hundred fifty meters. In Inuit tradition, it was called "the place where the earth's eye opens," and approaching it had long been forbidden. The sensation that someone had gotten there first did not fade, even after seven hours of flight. He thought of the blank letter paper. The envelope without a sender that had arrived with the stone. He could tell there were impressions from embossing, but he still could not read the contents. Did they appear only when illuminated by light at the same wavelength as the stone's phosphorescence? Or was there another method? In the inner pocket, alongside the stone, that white paper remained silent. *(Who sent it?)* The question held no answer. Seven hours of flight, or the layover through Reykjavik afterward—the answer might never come. Yet the reasons to proceed were complete. Toranosuke closed his eyes. Whether he could sleep, he did not know. He simply decided to use this time to rest his body, nothing more. ＊ Keflavik International Airport's transit lounge was white and gray. Light from the North Atlantic poured through the massive glass wall. Though it was already late morning, the sky hung low, closer to lead than blue. Autumn in Iceland held no other kind of light. The lounge floor was white tile, and the white fluorescent light combined to create an overall impression of cleanliness but sterility. Passengers scattered during the wait for the next flight—travelers rolling suitcases, businessmen with laptops open, young travelers listening to music through headphones. Words flew back and forth, but each person remained closed within their own time. Toranosuke sat at the end of a row near the window. A glass wall stood diagonally ahead, allowing him to naturally monitor what lay behind. His luggage rested on his lap. He considered buying coffee but decided against it. He did not want to create unnecessary movement patterns. He touched his inner pocket. The stone was there. The card was there. The letter paper was there. Two hours remained until departure. "Are you Ibuki Toranosuke?" The voice came from directly ahead. Toranosuke stood. In a single motion, he stepped back. His luggage remained in his left hand. His right hand was free. His gaze turned toward the voice— A woman stood before him. Deep indigo hair flowed from her shoulders in long waves. Clear water-blue eyes regarded Toranosuke quietly. She was perhaps one hundred sixty centimeters tall. She wore a black coat with a white scarf, and a small silver star-shaped earring glinted at her left ear. She carried a laptop bag and a thin shoulder bag, and her body showed no tension. Yet—she did not flinch or show surprise at Toranosuke's retreat and sharp gaze. Both her hands were held open. She was deliberately showing that she carried nothing. Toranosuke said nothing. "I am Seio Aiko," the woman continued. "I am a meteorologist. I have something to tell you." Her voice was calm. She used polite language, but emotional color was thin. Neither fear nor flattery. It was a voice that presented information. *(A meteorologist)* Calculation began in Toranosuke's mind. In the three years since he had effectively left the Ryouhyoukai, he had experienced multiple contacts from people posing as civilians. He could not always determine whether they came from the Boreas Consortium side or from an informant within the Ryouhyoukai itself. Whether this woman was either of those, or something entirely different, could not be measured from appearance alone. Toranosuke took out his terminal. "Wait," he said. "Let me verify something." The woman nodded. Without speaking, she returned to a nearby seat and sat. She placed her luggage on her lap and looked out the window. This response generated the first subtle assessment in Toranosuke's mind. She did not become angry. She did not make excuses. She chose to wait without hesitation. Whether as the result of training or as a sign of confidence, both interpretations held validity. Toranosuke searched on his terminal. "Seio Aiko," "meteorologist"—results appeared. Multiple peer-reviewed academic papers. Two papers on temperature changes in Varna Ice Shelf, one on low-pressure patterns in the Arctic. There was an institutional affiliation listed. But the date of the last publication was two years ago and stopped there. Nothing had appeared since. *(Publication ceased)* If the identity were forged, they would not create such detailed academic records. But the two-year gap also could not be explained. Evidence did not lean in either direction. Toranosuke closed his terminal and returned to stand before the woman. "I'll listen to what you have to say," he said simply, and sat in the seat across from her. He sat shallowly, ready to stand again if needed. ＊ Aiko opened her laptop. It started quickly. She entered a password and immediately expanded a file. An isotherm map spread across the screen. A temperature distribution diagram color-coded by scale—a visualization of satellite data showing an overhead view of the Arctic atmosphere. "This is data from August seventeenth, twenty twenty-one," Aiko said. "The same date the Nordaria lost communications." She pointed at the screen with her finger. At one point in the southeastern Varna Ice Shelf, a color distinctly different from its surroundings was concentrated. "There is a localized temperature anomaly at this location," she said. "How much," asked Toranosuke. "More than fifteen degrees Celsius higher than the surrounding area. It persisted for several hours," she replied. "Beyond the range of natural phenomena," "It exceeds what can be explained by normal geothermal activity within the ice shelf. Even if it were seismic heat release, it does not match the observed seismic data. The weather conditions provide no reason for this point alone to stand out," Aiko zoomed in. Numerical values indicating the center coordinates of the temperature anomaly appeared in the upper right of the screen. Toranosuke's hand stopped. He withdrew a card holder from his pocket. There was a memo where he had transcribed the analysis results of the GPS logger's data card. He unfolded it. He compared the two sets of numbers. *(Within three kilometers)* On the map's scale, less than three kilometers. The final coordinates recorded by the GPS logger and the center coordinates of the temperature anomaly Aiko indicated. Two independent pieces of evidence converged on the same location. If one were to use the word coincidence here, one would need to calculate the probability of that "coincidence." Varna Ice Shelf measured one hundred eighty kilometers east to west, ninety kilometers north to south. The probability that two pieces of evidence would converge on a single point within that area was—there was no need to calculate. Coincidence was not a valid interpretation of those numbers. Toranosuke stared at the map without moving for a while. "Why hasn't this data been made public," he asked. A subtle change occurred in Aiko's expression. Not a hardening or a collapse—simply, her eyes took on the quality of looking at something distant. For just a moment. "Two years ago, I submitted this analysis to my institution," she said. "Three weeks later, I was notified that the institution had begun coordinating with an observation network affiliated with the Boreas Consortium, and my access rights were restricted. The research was put on hold with the reason that the data required 'further review.'" "That was two years ago," "I have not yet received notification that the review is complete," Toranosuke overlaid that sequence of events onto his own three years. Organizational logic worked first, evidence came second. It was the same structure as when the Ryouhyoukai had complied with the search termination. A person arriving from a different place had reached the same wall. "I'm heading directly to Grisfjiord," Toranosuke said. "It's where the Nordaria made its last resupply. From there, I'm going into the interior of the ice shelf." Aiko did not immediately object. Instead, she opened another window. Numerical weather prediction data filled the screen. "Three low-pressure systems will pass through over the next ten days," she said. "Visibility in the southeastern ice shelf will likely drop below one kilometer. The condition of the brash ice cannot be confirmed without sensor data. Temperatures will be around minus thirty degrees Celsius. Without GPS pins to serve as landmarks on-site, it will be difficult to maintain