How to Celebrate FACAI-Chinese New Year with These 15 Traditional Customs

I remember the first time I witnessed FACAI-Chinese New Year celebrations in Lumière's central district—the vibrant red lanterns swinging in the perpetual twilight seemed almost defiant against our city's grim reality. There's a peculiar beauty in how our traditions persist even when death touches every family, when orphanages overflow with children whose parents joined expeditions that never returned. In this city where some choose to create art while others develop weapons, our New Year customs become more than mere rituals—they transform into acts of resistance, ways to affirm life when extinction looms. Having managed a festival stall for three years before joining the research division, I've come to appreciate how these fifteen traditions bind us together when everything else threatens to pull us apart.

The preparation begins weeks in advance with thorough house cleaning, which in Lumière takes on almost spiritual significance. We're not just sweeping away physical dust but metaphorically clearing the darkness that permeates our city. I always help my neighbors with this ritual—there's something profoundly comforting about watching families work together, creating order in a world where chaos reigns beyond our walls. The red decorations we hang everywhere aren't just for show; they represent the blood of those who've fallen in expeditions, their sacrifice remembered in every crimson lantern and paper cutting. My personal favorite is writing couplets with black ink on red paper—the stark contrast mirrors our existence here, the darkness of our situation against the vibrant hope we stubbornly maintain.

Food plays a crucial role in our celebrations, with dumplings representing wealth and longevity—two concepts that feel increasingly precious in Lumière. The communal preparation of these dishes creates temporary oases of normalcy in our fractured society. I've noticed that during these cooking sessions, people rarely discuss the Paintress or the failed expeditions; instead, we share stories of better times, of relatives who ventured forth, creating a tapestry of memory that sustains us. The reunion dinner on New Year's Eve becomes particularly poignant when you consider that approximately 73% of families in Lumière have lost at least one member to the Continent expeditions. We always set extra places at our table—not just for absent relatives but for the hope that this might be the year someone returns.

The custom of giving red envelopes containing money has evolved in our context—now they often contain small tokens of protection or notes of encouragement for those considering joining expeditions. Having been on the receiving end of such envelopes before my research posting, I can attest to their emotional weight exceeding their monetary value. The dragon and lion dances that wind through our streets take on a militant precision here, their movements sometimes incorporating defensive maneuvers observed from expedition footage. Firecrackers, which we still manufacture despite resource shortages, serve both to scare away evil spirits and to mask the sounds of weapons testing from the research districts.

What many outsiders wouldn't understand is how our New Year traditions have adapted to incorporate remembrance of the fallen. The temple visits aren't just for praying to deities but for honoring the 4,812 documented expedition members who haven't returned. The practice of wearing new clothes transforms into wearing something belonging to departed family members, keeping their memory close. Even the taboo against sweeping on New Year's Day has deepened—we see it as respecting the footsteps of those who may yet return.

The lantern festival that concludes our celebrations feels particularly significant in a city where artificial light battles eternal twilight. We've developed lanterns that can withstand the peculiar atmospheric conditions of Lumière, and watching them rise feels like sending small pieces of hope into the oppressive sky. Some lanterns carry messages for the Paintress herself—pleas, challenges, or sometimes just questions about why she's determined to end us all. In my research division, we've analyzed these messages, finding patterns that might help future expeditions.

These fifteen traditions have become the scaffolding upon which we build our resistance against despair. They remind us that even with a 0% expedition success rate, even with orphanages at 140% capacity, even when couples debate whether to bring children into this world, we still choose to celebrate, to hope, to live fully whatever time we have left. The customs ground us in our humanity when the Paintress threatens to strip it away. As I hang the final red decoration each year, I'm reminded that our greatest weapon against extinction might not be the technology we develop but the traditions we refuse to abandon.