Drag a short line through orange to light it,
then through green to set the fire loose.
Hit the burn target. You get three fuses per level.
One continuous line per turn, and the fuse is short: when the ring at your fingertip empties, it ignites where it died. Your line picks up the last element it crossed and carries it forward, so order matters. Cross your own line to tie a knot, which detonates. Points come from the chain reaction, not from what you touch: deep, self-spreading cascades score; scribbling does not.
No fresh boards. Scorch stays scorched, amber stays frozen, seeds keep growing, and bramble regrows on its own. Your old lines return as wisps, faint ghosts retracing your former strokes. Touch a wisp mid-draw to merge its fuse with yours. The game also watches the shapes you draw and quietly names your style.
A great board can be crystallized into a hex: a self-contained, playable challenge you hand to someone else. They draw one line on your aftermath and try to beat your score. Beating it passes a mutated hex onward with the lineage of every hand it survived. Opening a stranger's hex cross-pollinates your own world, permanently.
One shared daily board, same for everyone on Earth. Three attempts. Share the silhouette of your cascade, not the answer.
Draw one line on their aftermath. Beat the chain and pass the mutation on.