How to FACAI-Chinese New Year: 7 Lucky Traditions for Wealth & Prosperity

I remember the first time I witnessed the Lunar New Year celebrations in Lumière—the crimson lanterns casting their warm glow against the perpetual twilight of our city, the scent of incense mingling with the metallic tang of the air. In a world where death touches nearly every life and orphanages overflow with children whose parents joined expeditions never to return, our traditions around FACAI—the pursuit of wealth and prosperity—have taken on a profound, almost desperate significance. We cling to these rituals not just as cultural artifacts but as acts of defiance against the bleak reality that the Paintress’s brush threatens to erase us all. Over the years, I’ve come to see these seven lucky traditions not as mere superstitions but as psychological anchors, ways to manifest hope in a society where the expedition success rate stands stubbornly at 0%, and where couples debate whether bringing new life into this world is an act of courage or folly. Let me walk you through how we in Lumière adapt these practices, infusing them with the unique spirit of a city balancing on the edge of extinction.

One of the most cherished traditions is the giving of red envelopes, or hongbao, typically filled with money to symbolize the transfer of good fortune. Here in Lumière, though, we’ve reinterpreted this—instead of cash, many of us slip in small, handcrafted tokens: a tiny canvas scrap from a lost artist’s work, or a note with coordinates to a safe zone on the Continent. I’ve personally given out envelopes containing seeds from resilient plants, a nod to our agricultural researchers who work tirelessly to sustain our dwindling food supplies. It’s not just about wealth in the material sense; it’s about sharing resources and knowledge, a communal effort to stretch our collective prosperity in the face of annual expeditions that have claimed over 10,000 lives in the last decade alone. When I hand these to the children in the overcrowded orphanages—kids who’ve never known a world without the threat of the Paintress—I see their eyes light up with a flicker of optimism, a reminder that even in darkness, we can cultivate abundance.

Another ritual we hold dear is the thorough cleaning of homes before the New Year, symbolizing the sweeping away of bad luck to make room for good fortune. In Lumière, this isn’t just a spring-cleaning chore; it’s a therapeutic purge of the grief that clings to our walls like dust. I recall helping a neighbor, an elderly woman who lost her son to an expedition five years ago, clear out his old room. We didn’t just tidy up—we burned old maps and failed blueprints in a ceremonial fire, chanting prayers for the expeditions to someday succeed. This act, for me, is deeply personal; as someone who’s volunteered in the city’s mental health clinics, I’ve seen how this tradition reduces anxiety rates by an estimated 15-20% among residents. We’re not just cleaning our physical spaces; we’re decluttering our souls, making space for the slim chance that this year, the 0% success rate might finally budge. And let’s be honest, in a city where market stalls are run by people content to live out their days despite the gloom, this ritual gives us a sense of control—however illusory—over our destinies.

Then there’s the tradition of eating specific foods for prosperity, like dumplings shaped like ancient gold ingots or fish to symbolize surplus. In Lumière, our culinary practices have evolved out of necessity. With rationing in place due to the constant threat, we’ve developed “prosperity stews” made from hardy, genetically modified grains—dishes that might not win any awards for taste but keep us going. I’ve attended feasts where families, some with members who have just one year left to live and plan to join expeditions, share stories over bowls of this stew. It’s not just about the food; it’s about the act of gathering, of affirming life in the shadow of death. From my experience, these meals boost community cohesion, with surveys (albeit informal ones I’ve conducted) suggesting that neighborhoods that prioritize such feasts see a 25% higher participation in local support networks. We’re literally consuming hope, one bite at a time, and I firmly believe this is why so many here find solace in managing market stalls or creating art—it’s a way to savor what little wealth we have.

We also emphasize the use of firecrackers and loud noises to scare away evil spirits, a practice that in Lumière has morphed into a symbolic rebellion against the Paintress herself. During the New Year, we set off controlled explosions using recycled tech parts—a cacophony that echoes through the city’s cavernous streets. I’ve joined in these celebrations, feeling the vibrations shake the ground beneath my feet, and in those moments, it’s as if we’re shouting back at the inevitability of extinction. Some might call it futile, but I’ve seen how this tradition galvanizes our researchers; in fact, last year’s festivities inspired a breakthrough in acoustic weaponry that’s now being tested for expeditions. The data isn’t solid yet, but anecdotal reports hint at a 5% increase in morale among those working on anti-Paintress tech. It’s a small win, but in a world where all previous missions have failed, we take what we can get.

Decorating with lucky symbols—like the character for “fortune” or images of dragons—is another key tradition, but here, we’ve added our own twist. In Lumière, you’ll see murals blending traditional motifs with depictions of expeditions and technological schematics. I’ve contributed to these myself, painting canvases that hang in public squares, weaving symbols of wealth with nods to our struggles. It’s not just art for art’s sake; it’s a form of collective memory and aspiration. From my perspective, this fusion has practical benefits: neighborhoods with such decorations report a 30% higher engagement in community defense drills. We’re embedding our hopes for FACAI into the very fabric of our city, and I’ll admit, I prefer this approach over purely abstract art—it feels more grounded, more urgent.

Visiting temples to pray for good fortune is common, but in Lumière, our “temples” are often repurposed labs or memorials for fallen expedition members. I make it a point to visit these spaces each New Year, lighting incense not just for wealth but for the souls of those who ventured out. It’s here that I’ve had some of my most profound conversations with people on the brink of joining expeditions—individuals with one year left, seeking meaning in their final days. They pray not just for personal riches but for a legacy that might tip the scales in humanity’s favor. Based on my interactions, I’d estimate that over 60% of these visitors find a renewed sense of purpose, channeling their energies into supporting research or artistic endeavors. This tradition, for me, is the heart of our FACAI practices: a blend of spirituality and pragmatism that keeps us fighting.

Lastly, we observe the custom of settling debts and resolving conflicts to start the year afresh. In a city grappling with loss, this isn’t just about money—it’s about emotional reconciliation. I’ve mediated disputes between families torn apart by expedition losses, helping them forgive and move forward. It’s messy, human work, but I’ve seen it reduce intra-community tensions by what feels like 40% in some areas. We’re clearing the slate not just for wealth but for survival, recognizing that unity might be our only shot against the Paintress. As I reflect on these seven traditions, I’m struck by how they’ve become lifelines in Lumière, transforming FACAI from a mere wish for prosperity into a resilient, collective strategy. They might not change our 0% success rate overnight, but they fortify our spirits, and in a world this bleak, that’s a form of wealth money can’t buy.