Prologue
I was born in Next Qing.
I grew up in Next Qing.
This is my story—
And perhaps, yours too.
Chapter 1: Red Braid
At the time, I was being thrown out of the bank by a security guard.
His thick black braid got tangled around my foot and sent me crashing to the ground.
Outside the bank, the raging wind whipped my face like lashes.
My head felt like it had been shoved into a freezer—frozen solid, without hope of thawing.
“Why won’t you let me withdraw my money? Why can’t I touch the money I earned myself?!”
I scrambled up from the ground, picking dustcovered pebbles out of my palm as I yelled in frustration.
The female bank manager stepped out in red high heels.
Looking down on me, she said coldly, “As I’ve explained several times, your account is at risk of being frozen. We can’t unfreeze it here. You’ll need to file a claim with the relevant department.”
“Which department?”
“That I don’t know. You can consult the relevant department to find out which department it is.”
She exchanged a glance with the guard, turned cleanly, and walked back inside.
The guard stared at me with hostility.
The black braid hanging from the back of his head swept the ground like a thick, inkcolored python flicking its tongue.
Black—only those who’ve served in the military are allowed that color.
I knew if I didn’t leave soon, things would get worse.
With a sigh, I adjusted my own braid—colorless, made of transparent plastic—and let it hang over my chest. I prepared to leave, humiliated.
Suddenly, I heard a series of violent crashes.
In the next instant, my braid was splashed with warm, sticky red liquid.
A severed, mangled arm flew onto my body.
Stunned, I looked around.
A jeep was speeding through the crowded crosswalk, mowing down children on their way home from school.
As the car rampaged through the intersection, more and more red splattered onto my braid.
I had always wished my braid could be red.
That way, I wouldn’t have to do physical labor anymore.
There’s a saying in Next Qing:
“Men speak through their braids. Women speak through their shoes.”
Just like that arrogant bank manager—
Women show their status through the color of their shoes.
Men, like me, prove their worth through the color of their braid.
But I never imagined that my first red would be soaked in blood.
Unbidden, a childhood lesson popped into my head—something we were forced to recite in school:
“The red that builds our beautiful lives today was forged by the red spirit of our predecessors. This pure red is the red of sunrise, the red of the New Year, the red of selfless devotion…”
“What’s with all the noise out here? Haven’t you gotten rid of him yet?”
The red high heels reappeared in my view.
The manager glanced at the stunned guard.
Following his gaze, she saw the severed limbs, the crushed skulls, the dismembered children—and finally realized what had happened.
She frowned slightly, then said,
“Don’t just stand there. Don’t let this affect normal business.”
The guard snapped out of it, nodded, and pulled out a remote control from his pocket.
The bank’s metal shutters quickly descended.
He and the manager slipped back inside just before the door slammed shut.
The wind still blew.
It tangled my braid and dried the red blood on it.
My legs felt paralyzed—I couldn’t move.
I could only watch the jeep disappear into the distance.
It all happened so fast, and ended just as fast.
By the time people fully processed what had happened, the sound of crying and shouting filled the streets.
“Stop gawking. Leave now,” the guard’s voice rang out from a loudspeaker bolted to the wall.
“And clean your braid. You’re not authorized to use that color.”
I nodded, rolled up my braid, and left in a hurry.
I had to get home…
Just like he said—
Red was not a color I deserved.
If someone reported me for misusing a color that didn’t belong to me, I’d be in even deeper trouble.
I stepped over piles of corpses and streams of blood—
Over colorless braids mixed with broken bones and translucent shoes—
Careful not to step on any of them.
Suddenly, a different braid caught my eye.
Though severed like the rest,
it stood out in a sea of transparent plastic.
It was blue.
A small, delicate braid—
Perhaps once worn by some unfortunate boy.
Chapter 2: Mr. Q (partial)
The boy with the blue braid was dead.
Some people online even celebrated his death.
After all, he was the descendant of a colonizer.
I didn’t know much about colonizers.
I was just a “transparent braid.”
My braid marked me as someone who didn’t study well—
Especially not history, a subject that demanded endless memorization.
I passed through a narrow, dimly lit hallway,
and made my way beneath an overpass made of concrete and rebar.
In a remote corner under the bridge, home awaited.
I was almost there.
The sunlight had killed off the cold.
I was thankful to make it back before winter sunset.
I slipped off my shoes and made myself a pot of tea.
I needed something hot to melt the frost off my mind.
As the room lit up, the voice of Mr. Q echoed in my ears.
It was still as warm and reassuring as ever—
Capable of calming people and rousing them to action.
I set down my empty cup and turned to the electronic screen built into the wall.
“Around 3 p.m. today, a mass injury incident occurred outside Qingxin Elementary School. Mr. Q has issued an important directive. He emphasized that all departments must take concrete measures to protect the lives and health of our people…”
The news anchor droned on, reciting details of the very event I had witnessed with my own eyes.
The screen occasionally cut to footage of Mr. Q—majestic and commanding.
“My people,” Mr. Q said solemnly, facing the camera,
“I swear this incident will be thoroughly investigated.”
