Legend of the Dog-Coin
At half past three in the morning, Chen Hao’s phone screen glared in the darkness.
He’d been watching the order book for six straight hours. In the trading group, someone said QI was about to go to zero, while others insisted the whales’ (market) maker was unloading. Screenshots flew everywhere. QI’s price was hammered down from 0.003598 all the way to 0.001447—down more than sixty percent. His account’s unrealized loss was already close to twenty thousand yuan, the equivalent of three months’ wages.
“Cut your losses, bro.” Old Li from the group sent a message. “This coin has no saving. Liquidity is basically gone.”
Chen Hao’s fingers hovered above the sell button, trembling slightly. He thought back to why he bought in the first place—back to that version of himself who’d studied the whitepaper late into the night, back to what the project team said: “The mainnet is about to launch.” But now, with the price falling like this, he wavered.
Just as he was about to hit confirm, he saw on-chain data. In the past two hours, the whale addresses had net increased by seventeen, and holdings weren’t decreasing—they were actually rising. He took a deep breath, slammed his phone face down on the desk, and closed his eyes.
“Either it goes to zero, or it doubles. I’m betting.”
He didn’t sell. Instead, he used all the remaining eight thousand yuan to add to his position. His average cost was 0.001650—almost the floor price. In that moment, he felt like he was jumping off a cliff, not knowing whether the ground below was a bottomless abyss or just flat land.
In the next two days, he barely slept.
On the third morning, his phone vibrated and jolted him awake. When he checked it, QI’s price was already at 0.002800. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he must have read it wrong. Refresh—no change. Refresh again—0.003100.
The trading group exploded.
“QI is pumping!” “The mainnet announcement is out!” “The exchange is listing contracts!”
The price surged like a rocket. 0.003221, 0.003400, 0.003598. Two days earlier, Old Li—the one who’d said it would go to zero—posted a string of ellipses in the group. Chen Hao stared at the numbers in his account, from unrealized losses of twenty thousand turning into unrealized gains of thirty thousand, and his hands started shaking again.
But this time, he didn’t panic. At 0.003500, he had placed a limit sell order for half his holdings. Taking profits is stability—this was the lesson he’d earned through countless losses.
The moment the order filled, he let out a long breath. 32,200 yuan—after subtracting his principal, he still had a pure profit of twelve thousand. Not a lot, but it was the first time he truly made money in the crypto market.
Later, QI climbed once again to a high of 0.003598, and then pulled back. Watching the candlestick chart, Chen Hao felt calm inside, like a dead pond. He knew the win on this trade wasn’t luck—it was because, in the darkest moment, he chose to trust his own judgment.
Of course, he also knew that next time, it might not be so lucky.
That’s how the crypto world is—some people get rich overnight, while others go to zero overnight. Chen Hao was simply the one who hadn’t pressed the sell button at 3:30 a.m.
#QI #抄底 #Cryptocurrency Story
At half past three in the morning, Chen Hao’s phone screen glared in the darkness.
He’d been watching the order book for six straight hours. In the trading group, someone said QI was about to go to zero, while others insisted the whales’ (market) maker was unloading. Screenshots flew everywhere. QI’s price was hammered down from 0.003598 all the way to 0.001447—down more than sixty percent. His account’s unrealized loss was already close to twenty thousand yuan, the equivalent of three months’ wages.
“Cut your losses, bro.” Old Li from the group sent a message. “This coin has no saving. Liquidity is basically gone.”
Chen Hao’s fingers hovered above the sell button, trembling slightly. He thought back to why he bought in the first place—back to that version of himself who’d studied the whitepaper late into the night, back to what the project team said: “The mainnet is about to launch.” But now, with the price falling like this, he wavered.
Just as he was about to hit confirm, he saw on-chain data. In the past two hours, the whale addresses had net increased by seventeen, and holdings weren’t decreasing—they were actually rising. He took a deep breath, slammed his phone face down on the desk, and closed his eyes.
“Either it goes to zero, or it doubles. I’m betting.”
He didn’t sell. Instead, he used all the remaining eight thousand yuan to add to his position. His average cost was 0.001650—almost the floor price. In that moment, he felt like he was jumping off a cliff, not knowing whether the ground below was a bottomless abyss or just flat land.
In the next two days, he barely slept.
On the third morning, his phone vibrated and jolted him awake. When he checked it, QI’s price was already at 0.002800. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he must have read it wrong. Refresh—no change. Refresh again—0.003100.
The trading group exploded.
“QI is pumping!” “The mainnet announcement is out!” “The exchange is listing contracts!”
The price surged like a rocket. 0.003221, 0.003400, 0.003598. Two days earlier, Old Li—the one who’d said it would go to zero—posted a string of ellipses in the group. Chen Hao stared at the numbers in his account, from unrealized losses of twenty thousand turning into unrealized gains of thirty thousand, and his hands started shaking again.
But this time, he didn’t panic. At 0.003500, he had placed a limit sell order for half his holdings. Taking profits is stability—this was the lesson he’d earned through countless losses.
The moment the order filled, he let out a long breath. 32,200 yuan—after subtracting his principal, he still had a pure profit of twelve thousand. Not a lot, but it was the first time he truly made money in the crypto market.
Later, QI climbed once again to a high of 0.003598, and then pulled back. Watching the candlestick chart, Chen Hao felt calm inside, like a dead pond. He knew the win on this trade wasn’t luck—it was because, in the darkest moment, he chose to trust his own judgment.
Of course, he also knew that next time, it might not be so lucky.
That’s how the crypto world is—some people get rich overnight, while others go to zero overnight. Chen Hao was simply the one who hadn’t pressed the sell button at 3:30 a.m.
#QI #抄底 #Cryptocurrency Story