13. Sun Capsule

For the first time in days, Li Sining was too deep in thought to even notice the birdsong drifting through the wooden shutters of his study.

His entire focus was on the box in front of him—a crude square frame lined with polished bronze inside, its lid fashioned from thin silver slats and fragments of mirrored glass. But more importantly, around it glimmered the faintest flicker of space power—a transparent dome of force that only he could interact with.

This wasn't a box.

It was a space chamber, pulled from his mutant core and wrapped around physical matter. A pocket of his ability, sealed and stable.

Inside it, he'd captured pure sunlight.

Or so he thought.

Until he opened the lid, released the chamber's seal, and… the room remained dim.

Not dark, but dim—the light inside the container glowed faintly, like the last breath of a dying firefly. Not nearly enough to light even a corner of the room, let alone illuminate it as he had hoped.

Sining stared.

Then sighed.

Failure—again. Day Three.

-

The first attempt had been crude. Using a mix of curved bronze plates, a flattened glass lens salvaged from his storage space, and a thin layer of reflective dust he'd collected during his apocalypse years, he had tried to reflect direct sunlight into the container from outside.

At noon, under peak sun, he had opened the space chamber and let the light pour in.

He thought that was enough.

But what he captured was raw heat and light, not concentrated or stabilized.

When he opened the container that evening—there was only warmth. No glow. The light had dissipated, scattering like smoke in water.

Sunlight wasn't just heat or photons. It was both directional and structured. He had only trapped its shadow.

Failure.

Determined, Sining added layered lenses to concentrate the beam, forming a magnified point into the spatial box. He believed the higher intensity would let the space ability "remember" the brightness longer.

He overdid it.

The light funneled too fast—too hot—and burned the containment surface. Inside the space pocket, the focus point turned unstable. The container imploded, discharging all its energy into the wooden bench beneath.

That bench caught fire.

The room had to be aired for an hour while Siming yelled from the kitchen about "scientific arson."

Failure again.

On the third day, Sining experimented with different times of day, believing maybe the angle or color temperature of the sunlight affected the storage process. He attempted to trap early dawn sunlight—pale, diffuse, gentle—and sealed it with great care.

The result?

The light lasted longer, but again, the brightness was weak, insufficient.

After two hours, it faded. When he broke the seal, all that remained was a mild glow like a dying candle.

He was missing something.

He paced the room late into the night, eyes bloodshot from study and strain.

Then it clicked.

He wasn't just trying to trap light.

He was trying to trap active solar energy, and his space ability—though powerful—wasn't sentient. It didn't understand the function of what it stored. It preserved mass and energy only if he gave it a container with purpose.

And that purpose had to be tied to memory, pressure, and time.

The space core remembered things as he imagined them to be. He didn't need to trap sunlight alone.

He needed to trap sunlight meant to illuminate.

The morning came with clouds overhead.

Not ideal.

But Li Sining no longer needed direct sun. He needed structure.

He took out a metal bowl from his old-world supplies—half-polished, curved inside like a satellite dish. He lined it with strips of mirror glass, cut into petal shapes, and glued them around the interior.

He placed a clear crystal sphere at the center.

And around that bowl, he wove his space energy consciously, carefully, layering it like silk—thin, even sheets of compression that curved along the shape of the device, hugging its edges and pressing gently inward like an egg of energy about to hatch.

Then—he waited.

When the clouds passed and sunlight finally bathed the reflective bowl, he didn't force the energy.

Instead, he visualized it as a lamp. Not a beam. Not a fire.

A steady, constant glow, like the LEDs in his command base back on Earth. Artificial but controlled. Even. Gentle.

He visualized the space wrapping it—preserving not just the light, but the function of the light.

He imagined the bowl as a source, not a collector.

The spatial core responded.

It hummed faintly. The seal solidified.

He removed the physical bowl.

And held in his hand a sealed spatial container no larger than a plum—completely transparent, yet glowing from within with a steady, soft light.

He opened the storage field.

The room lit up.

Bright. Even. Gentle on the eyes. The same glow as late morning sun filtered through clean glass. No heat. No flickering.

Sining stared.

He walked around the room, holding the orb.

It cast shadows. It reflected off mirrors. It made the ink on his page legible again.

He laughed softly.

And recorded the notes in three places.

The Theory of Spatial Light Storage

Raw sunlight cannot be stored without dissipation.

Light needs to be converted into functional energy—conceptualized by the user before storage.

The spatial core responds to intention and structure.

Containers mimicking the shape or purpose of a lamp produce stable results.

Sealed containers lose light only when the space pocket begins to degrade.

Based on his instinct and ability resonance, the degradation starts on Day 60.

That gives each light capsule 60 full days of continuous use.

After 60 days, the spatial layer will break, and the container becomes a dull, powerless shell.

He dubbed the invention: "Sun Capsule."

He created two more before sunset.

By dinner, when the oil lamps were being filled and wicks trimmed, Li Sining sat at the table with a glowing Sun Capsule perched in a cup.

The siblings walked in and froze.

"What is that?" Sitao asked, eyes wide.

"It's bright," murmured Sixue, already narrowing her eyes.

Siming leaned closer. "Did you—?"

"I made a portable sunlight lamp," Sining said calmly. "It lasts for sixty days. Then you toss it. I'm working on a renewal version."

Siyuan blinked. "Can I have one?"

"No," Sining said. "You get one after the wedding."

Lu Yan peeked in from the corner, blinking at the soft light. "It's beautiful…"

Sining smiled slightly. "That's the point. And practical."

Silan grabbed a brush and immediately began sketching it. "This needs a name."

"It has one."

Siming poured tea. "And now you're going to mass-produce these?"

Sining looked up with a glint in his eye.

"I'm going to sell them to every noble, scholar, and merchant from here to the capital."

And just like that, the Li family's second business was born—not from weapons, farming, or silk.

But from light.

A piece of the sun, in the palm of your hand.