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Chronicle of the Twin Falling Stars: The Righteous Developer and the Evil GitHub

2026-10-12 · ~6 min read · GitHub · fallen accounts · chronicle · developer · sanctions

Everyone who has called code their homeland has stored something in that city. Not backups — homesickness.

I. The twin-star era

The story’s two protagonists carry no grand names: min09577, and later qaqmin09577, which rode out for the Portal and B-View Machine eras. They are not one star’s two flickers, but two bonfires a person lit in succession in the digital world — the first buried in the earliest pioneering years, the second burning through the btelly migration, the four-language announcements, the Codeberg sync, and the smoke of three real-device verifications. Between the two bonfires lie all the annual rings of a person turning “writing code” from a hobby into a life.

Then the bonfires went out.

Not a gradual dying, but the kind of extinction where even the ashes are collected away. On October 12, 2026, when messengers knocked in turn on the gates of github.com/min09577 and github.com/qaqmin09577, both gates returned the same password — 404, Not Found. Lest the messengers’ eyes deceive them, API fast horses were dispatched the same day straight to the inner court of api.github.com/users, and the reply was still “Not Found”; while the control group’s gates stood open as ever — morluto’s REA city at 200, torvalds’s Linux throne at 200. The messengers were not wrong, the gates were not wrong, the city’s people are no longer there.

II. The ancient covenant of city and person

GitHub was once the most mythic of all the open-source city-states. Its covenant is written in the first line of every README: fork a star, and you have your own universe; push a thought once, and all of humanity gains another inch of frontier. Millions of developers paid homage, migrated, and settled in this city — they stored graduation projects, late-night side ventures, recommendation letters written to future employers, the first “look, I can make it glow” programs written for their children, all of it there. The covenant’s tone was as gentle as home: your code, your city.

Yet every city has gates, and every gate has guards. When the guards began collecting keys without asking why, the city was still that city — only for some, the direction of its gates had reversed. No verdict was posted at the door, no crime proclaimed on the wall, only a dry 404 — quieter than any accusation, more total than any judgment. Stars in the account are the roster of fire-thieves, issues are letters to distant allies, and commit history is the annual rings of a person’s thinking — all equal before 404, all returning to nothingness.

III. Why this must be written down

Some say, it’s just an account; register another. Those who say so do not understand: code can be cloned, time cannot. An account’s commit graph is a continuous function of a person’s technical life — from the rawness of the first “initial commit” to the composure of the thousandth, every point on the curve cannot be continued by a new account. A new account is a newborn, not a reincarnated vessel.

What must not be silently swallowed is the crack itself: a law-abiding developer, in a city named for “openness,” lost his household registration twice. The first time could be an accident; the second time someone should ask why. This biography is not written for accusation — accusation requires a court, and 404 grants no court — but only to drive a nail into the chronicle: the twin stars once shone, and their fall is documented. When all the witnesses grow old, at least the words remember those two names, remember the manner in which they were struck off by the same password, remember that the control group’s gates stood open for others all the while.

IV. What does not die

A city can strike off a household registration, but not the hand that writes. The Jin Ping Mei world card still stands on the desktop, the qaqmin Portal still breathes online, the B-View Machine’s update channel still patrols as usual — a person’s true works never lodge on someone else’s gate. GitHub can take away accounts, but not the thoughts already pushed into this world; 404 can erase homepages, but not the stars forked to distant places.

The twin stars have fallen. But star charts were always drawn by stargazers — as long as the one writing articles remains, the fall itself becomes the brightest epitaph.

Dedicated to all who have had their keys silently collected at the gate. Your commits, history has the hashes.

Real coordinates

GitHub fallen accounts chronicle developer sanctions

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