Volume One: Heir to the Planet

Chapter One: The Barber

On May 11th, Year 300 of the Standard Interstellar Era, humans from the seven major planets jointly celebrated the annual Earth Day. The lively scenes were broadcast live across space in real time, and although there was a delay of several minutes, it hardly mattered.

Like many holidays, this day was originally a day of mourning—a memorial to tragedy. Three hundred years ago, Earth’s civilization was destroyed in an instant, leaving only a handful of humans to continue their existence and reproduction on newly developed planets. Year after year, the tragedy gradually faded, but the holiday remained, becoming one of the most important dates alongside New Year’s Day.

The grandest celebration was the high-altitude electromagnetic fireworks show. At dusk, with gentle winds and light clouds, the sky would begin to display colorful images. The theme changed every year, lasting several hours. At its peak, the display could cover dozens or even hundreds of square kilometers, and there was more than one location, ensuring that residents everywhere could enjoy the spectacle just by looking up.

This was also the time when the major planets competed for supremacy, vying in secret. Even if they couldn’t outdo each other, they couldn’t afford to appear too weak.

“It’s all about money.” The barber William Harper looked up for a while, felt his neck ache, and said this as he turned back into the shop.

At this very moment, William Harper had no idea that a huge windfall was about to fall into his lap.

He was a native of Zhaiwang Star, living in the old district of Zhaijing City, and owned a modestly sized barbershop. He had entered the trade at twenty-three and had been at it for over twenty years. Business grew more stable each year, his body grew broader each month, his hair and beard thinned by the day, and the only thing that hadn’t changed was his skill—which remained as mediocre as ever, long out of step with current trends. The shop’s equipment was all outdated, over a decade old.

To this, William Harper had his own explanation: haircuts are a machine’s job; manual haircuts are just a gimmick. After all the fuss, the difference from a machine is only one percent—maybe even less. The real barber should be a psychological expert—a “mind barber,” as he called it.

To put it plainly, the barber’s main job should be chatting with customers. William Harper called it “social organizing activities.” He was like the host of a party, controlling the atmosphere, creating topics, guiding conversations, sometimes spicing things up, sometimes cutting to the heart, ensuring every customer could join in and enjoy an hour or two of happiness.

Not many customers bought into this. The poor had no complaints about machine haircuts as long as the price was low. As for those who could afford it, they were willing to pay several or even dozens of times more for the “gimmick” of a manual haircut, just for that one percent difference.

William Harper’s dream of moving out of the old district and breaking into the new center had never come true.

He had long grown used to the rather sad thought that “life will never get any better.”

The shop wasn’t big, arranged in a semicircle with seven chairs evenly spaced. Behind the three in the middle stood haircutting machines: one in good condition, one that often had minor issues causing awkward moments for both barber and customer, and the last one was just for show—beyond repair and never moved.

Because it was a holiday, there were more customers than usual. All seven chairs were occupied, mostly by old neighbors from nearby, used to getting their hair cut and chatting here—one of the few hobbies they could afford.

There were two unfamiliar customers. They both looked young, out of place amid the shop’s rundown atmosphere, yet lacked the vitality of youth. They sat almost motionless, didn’t join the conversation, and rarely made eye contact, like tourists tired from walking the streets, using a haircut as an excuse to rest for a while.

Whatever the case, they would have to pay when they left. That was the only reason William Harper hadn’t asked them to leave.

The other five were regulars, enthusiastically debating which place had the most spectacular fireworks show.

The debate had gone on for a while and was entering a dull phase. No one could convince the others, and the tone was growing a bit heated.

William Harper returned just in time and immediately shifted the topic. “At the end of the day, it’s all about electricity and money. This year it’s a seven-planet contest, but next year it’ll be eight.”

Even on a day of nationwide celebration, “eight planets” was still a hot topic.

“It’s really unexpected. A planet developed over three hundred years ago—by rights, it should have either been proven a failed project or completely forgotten. How did it suddenly reappear, and now they say it’s reached maturity and is ready for human colonization? I think something’s fishy here, there’s definitely more to this story.” William Harper added, steering the conversation.

“Conspiracy” always draws people in. Once someone starts, the rest follow, quickly spinning out all sorts of wild theories.

But what draws people even more than conspiracy is wealth. The topic soon shifted to the value of the new planet. From time to time, someone’s eyes would glaze over for a few seconds—that was them searching the latest news through their internal chip, adding fresh material to the conversation.