Original article: Li Yuning, Daily People
In the first half of 2026, an epic bull market tied to the chip industry swept through South Korea, with the KOSPI index doubling in six months. Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix became the core of the market trend, completely rewriting the life trajectories of countless ordinary South Koreans.
South Korea has a total population of just over 50 million, but the number of securities accounts has exceeded 105 million, with an average of two stock accounts per person. The nationwide stock trading craze is at an unprecedented high, and the scale of borrowing money to trade stocks has repeatedly reached new highs, which has exacerbated the risks and hidden dangers.
People who were once focused on work and life have flocked to the stock market. Some have quit their jobs to trade stocks full-time, while others keep a close eye on the screens at their desks or during their commutes. Stocks have transformed from a simple investment into a topic of conversation about one's fate. Countless young South Koreans see the stock market as their last chance to break free from their current situation and turn their lives around, throwing themselves into it with a fear of being left behind by the times.
This article, written from the perspective of a Chinese person living in South Korea, interviews ordinary stock market investors of different backgrounds. Through the surface of the frenzied stock market, it interprets the existential anxieties, class struggles, and underlying social concerns of young South Koreans caught in the bull market, as well as the nationwide speculative frenzy. Enjoy:
Li Yuning is a Chinese woman living in Seoul, South Korea. In 2022, she resigned from her job in China to study Korean and pursue a doctorate in South Korea. After graduating, she stayed in South Korea to work at a research institution. Her days consisted of checking emails in the morning, writing reports during the day, and having dinner with friends in the evening. For a long time, her life was largely unrelated to the stock market.
Until the beginning of this year, she also opened her first stock account in South Korea. On her phone screen, identity verification, account connection, and transaction agreement popped up in sequence. Then a string of red and blue numbers appeared, which was the code that had "dominated" the fate of South Koreans over the past six months.
This unprecedented bull market since the first half of this year has been described as an epic phenomenon that deeply links South Korea's national fortunes with the chip industry cycle. The KOSPI index (Korea Composite Stock Price Index) more than doubled from 4,000 to 8,000 points in six months, with nearly 80% of the gains contributed by Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix.
Especially since this spring, friends have started talking frequently about Samsung Electronics, SK Hynix, and the closing prices of US stocks. Before, they talked about stocks like they were discussing a technical subject; now they talk about stocks like they're discussing fate. Some people take time off work to watch the market, some refresh their accounts in the bathroom, and some even quit their jobs because of the rise in KOSPI to become full-time investors from home. They no longer say they don't have a job, but rather that they've finally "escaped a salary."
A friend of Li Yuning's, who used to work in project management at a trading company in Jiangnan, was complaining last year about his meager year-end bonus. A few days ago, he suddenly posted a picture of a sports car steering wheel in a group chat, with only the caption: "하닉이사준차." (The car Hynix bought for me). A subtle comparison was laid bare: Both work the same hours and overtime, so why is it that some people can outpace others' salaries by several years' worth of earnings with just a few stock purchases?
But few people seriously discuss the downsides of the bull market. Data shows that South Korea has approximately 105 million stock accounts, while its total population is only over 50 million. In South Korea today, a person can live without a house or children, yet own an average of two stock accounts.
The stock market has thus prematurely entered the lives of ordinary people. But when the money comes from loans, housing, parents' retirement, or children's education expenses, losses are no longer just about the numbers decreasing, but about sleepless nights, phone calls that dare not be answered, and sitting in the office the next day unable to work.
In December 2025, in Yongin, South Korea, a man in his 40s died after telling his family he had lost 200 million won in stocks. His 9-year-old son was also found dead. This is not a sensational story. For many ordinary people, stocks are never just numbers on a screen; they are linked to debt, marriage, parents' retirement savings, and even determine whether a person can continue to have faith in themselves.
Li Yuning was both an observer and a participant. She was swept up in this stock market frenzy and gained insight into the mental state and contemporary portrait of young South Koreans behind the stock market. She specifically met with her South Korean friends to talk about how this bull market was revaluing the lives of ordinary people.
"The young 'ant' bet its few remaining chips as if this was its last chance to turn things around. After all, it couldn't get any worse than this."
Here is her account:
01 Everyone's investing in stocks
In order to get up early to check the stock market, South Koreans have further "evolved" their sleep schedule. What used to be a morning routine for South Koreans—checking the weather—now begins with checking their stock trading apps.
This is a bull market that has ordinary people betting their "fate." As of early June, the South Korean KOSPI index had risen by more than 108% year-to-date, surpassing the gains of the Nasdaq 100 during the dot-com bubble of 1999 and exceeding the historical peak during South Korea's industrial boom in the late 1980s. The total market capitalization of South Korean listed companies has surged 86% year-to-date to approximately $5 trillion, making it the world's sixth-largest stock market.
In early May, the number of securities accounts in South Korea exceeded 105 million, more than double the country's total population. On May 27, the Korea Exchange launched its first leveraged ETF tracking a single stock, Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix, two core South Korean technology stocks. The high leverage of these products carries significant risk, and regulators mandated that buyers complete an online "risk" education course beforehand. As a result, the online education website was briefly overwhelmed on the day of the ETF's launch. Thus, the stock market, through Samsung and SK Hynix, intruded into the daily lives of ordinary people, including their commutes, lunch breaks, group chats, and household accounts.
Minji was one of the young people who opened an account during this wave of enthusiasm. I met Minji during a part-time job. She was 29 years old and came from North Gyeongsang Province. It's a bit like South Korea's "old industrial base in the northeast": factories, ports, silent older generations, and fewer and fewer young people. After graduating, she came to Seoul and worked as a planner at an advertising company. The job sounded respectable, but after deducting insurance and taxes, she only received 2.8 million won (about 13,000 yuan) a month. After paying rent, transportation, food, and phone bills, the rest of her money would disappear in the wind.
She lives in Sinlim-dong, a place somewhat like Tiantongyuan in Beijing, crowded with office workers, civil service exam takers, convenience store night shift workers, and recent graduates. The cheapest housing in Korea is called "semi-basement," damp, dark, and prone to flooding during the rainy season. Minji has moved from semi-basement to above-ground, living in a small single room with a monthly rent of around 600,000 won (about 3,000 RMB) and a security deposit of 10 million won (about 50,000 RMB). The room isn't big, but it has a window, some light, and a kind of illusion that "at least I'm still going uphill."
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, Minji will likely work at an advertising company for a few years, her salary slowly increasing; then she'll marry an ordinary office worker, pool her savings, parental support, and a bank loan, and move to a new apartment on the outskirts of Seoul or in Gyeonggi Province. It seems she's finally moved from the countryside to Seoul, from a semi-basement apartment to a ground-floor one, from rent to a fully-fledged apartment. But in essence, it's nothing more than paying rent to a landlord in her youth and paying interest to a bank in middle age. So-called stability is merely giving insecurity a more respectable name.
It was precisely when this path was becoming increasingly narrow that the stock market entered her life. It was dangerous, yet it felt more like an escape than a life comprised of wages and rent. When the subway line 2 pulled into Xinlin Station, she was pushed onto the train. Before, on the subway, she would first check KakaoTalk (the Korean equivalent of WeChat); now, she opens her stock trading app first. The first time she bought only two stocks, she felt a little embarrassed, as if she were imitating someone else getting rich. But more than the fear of losses, she feared that years later, when people talked about this semiconductor bull market, she would be like those who missed out on housing prices, crypto, and the AI stock market boom driven by Nvidia, only able to say, "I didn't buy then."
Compared to single white-collar workers who have no worries about supporting their entire family, family users are more cautious when it comes to stock trading.
Junho is the boyfriend of a senior from my school days; he's 33. They've been married for three years since graduation, but still haven't tied the knot. He commutes daily from Incheon to Yeouido for work, earning a decent salary. He has an Excel spreadsheet detailing his savings on a tax deposit, wedding budget, and medical savings for his parents. In South Korea, a typical wedding, including the venue, banquet, wedding dress, and makeup, easily costs close to 30 million won (about 150,000 RMB); add the tax deposit for the new home, and marriage instantly becomes a multi-million won affair. Junho doesn't not want to get married; he just hasn't finished calculating on that spreadsheet. He used to believe that as long as he filled in each cell, life would always move forward. But with this bull market, he felt for the first time that the spreadsheet was too slow. When he entered the market, the stock price was already high, so he only bought a small amount as a trial.
"Is it too late?" This is the "FOMO" (Fear of Missing Out) sentiment that pervades ordinary South Koreans. Eun-joo, the receptionist at a dermatology clinic I frequent, quit her job after giving birth. In the mothers' group she belongs to, the conversation used to revolve around English language schools and pediatricians, but lately the topic has all turned to stocks. Eun-joo is also tempted to invest, but she first thinks about the family's finances. The money may seem to be in the account, but it has already been prioritized for the lives of her child, husband, and parents. She hesitates to make a move.
Of all my friends, Xiujiu is the most successful one in this bull market. As a veteran stock investor, he's the kind of person who's long treated the stock market as a second life, watching financial news on the treadmill and casually opening his securities app after his workout. Since the recent semiconductor bull market, he often jokingly messages me: "Each of my three accounts made 20 million won (about 90,000 yuan) today, Korean beef for me tonight." Sometimes he says, "I lost the equivalent of a Ferrari today." This sounds exaggerated, but it's like the new language of this bull market: comparing losses to sports cars, which also means he's regained his right to speak.
His father and sister entrusted him with their funds to invest in stocks. This isn't just Xiu Jiu's story. In this South Korean bull market, more and more young people are not only using their own savings but also borrowing money from their families to buy stocks, and even directly borrowing money from brokerage firms to enter the market. According to statistics from the Korea Financial Investment Association cited by South Korean media, the average daily scale of "borrowing money to invest in stocks" rose to approximately 33.8 trillion won by April this year, a record high for a single month. By May 21, the total outstanding balance of borrowed money for stock purchases in South Korea had risen to 36 trillion won. What's rising are stock prices; what's being wagered is the credit and future of ordinary people entering the market early.
These South Korean retail investors, who frantically flocked to the market, were called "ants," and the younger ones were called "young ants." This term carries a subtle sense of destiny. Ants are too small; they can only crawl along the ground, carrying small amounts of capital, judgment, and luck in the vast financial market. Yet, "they" still relentlessly squeezed into this ranks. Not because they all believed they could beat the market, but because they knew that staying put was equally dangerous.
02 The bull market is widening the wealth and class gap among South Koreans.
No one will admit at the outset that they bought stocks out of fear of being left behind. They'll say they're just buying a little to test the waters; they'll say everyone's watching Samsung and SK Hynix, it would be strange not to. But ultimately, what truly weighs on their hearts is often not greed, but a sense of absence.
This is how Minzhi started buying stocks. She didn't understand financial statements, nor could she explain the semiconductor cycle; she only knew that HBM (high-bandwidth memory) was hot, SK Hynix was rising rapidly, and everyone in the group was saying, "It's not too late yet." One evening, she met up with a college classmate in Hongdae. Her friend had barely sat down when she opened her stock trading app to show her how much her Hynix shares, bought the previous year, had risen. Her friend said casually, "I just bought a little bit casually; I didn't expect it to rise like this." Minzhi smiled and said, "That's great." That day, on her way home, she stood by the subway door, looking at her reflection in the glass. She suddenly felt very tired. Not because her friend had made money, but because of the tone of that casual remark, "I just bought a little bit casually." For some, casualness is something others can't afford to miss.
In South Korean workplaces, "wage poverty" is becoming a topic of discussion. "Lately, it's not people working, it's the stocks that are working." "Labor income has become like beggars in a bull market." Even without fantasies of getting rich overnight, ordinary people who work and save money step by step are becoming "pitiful."
Junhao finds that the life order he has worked so hard to build is being challenged. He is still trying to make a living, but suddenly he has become poor. The so-called "suddenly becoming poor" does not mean that a person is actually bankrupt, but that the frame of reference has changed. His girlfriend sometimes says, "You should learn to invest. Others buy Hynix and make back their deposit in a few months." In the past, Junhao compared himself with others in terms of salary, position and years of service; now, he is forced to compare his holdings, the time he bought them, and the account returns.
Housewife Eun-joo didn't actually invest in the stock market, so she didn't suffer any real losses, but she gradually felt a gap between herself and others. Once, someone in a mothers' group said they'd made money in the stock market and were planning to transfer their child to a more expensive English academy. Her child was still at their current, ordinary tutoring center. The teacher was diligent and meticulous in grading homework. However, when the teachers were mentioned in the mothers' group, they would always add a casual remark: "They're responsible, but their academic qualifications are a bit ordinary." In the South Korean education market, whether a teacher is a graduate of SKY (Seoul National University, Korea University, and Yonsei University, three top universities), has overseas experience, or has an accent like a native English speaker (원어민), all become price tags in the eyes of parents. And the bull market widened the gap between children who were originally on the same starting line.
The stock market is a metaphor for social circles. Xiu Jiu understands better than anyone that stock trading in South Korea is not just about opening a brokerage app and placing orders. It also includes joining groups, reading reports, maintaining relationships, treating people to meals, giving gifts, and even learning to discern which statements at the dinner table are true information and which are just attempts to get you to buy in.
A few years ago, he was just a nobody in the Kakao finance group. The group was called "Market Learning Room," which sounded like an ordinary study group, but it was actually more like a small social club: former brokers, asset managers, veteran stock investors, and a few people like himself who wanted to climb the ladder.
Every morning at 8:30, the group becomes active. Some post US stock market closing prices, some post institutional reports, and some screenshot foreign capital movements. Whoever makes accurate judgments, gets the latest information, and still has capital has the right to speak. Whoever continues to lose money, or whose words go unanswered, eventually disappears and is "forced" out of the group. Many such stock trading groups operate, filter, and shrink in South Korea, much like the ever-narrowing of upward social circles.
Hidehisa's favor with the "financial bigwig" wasn't based on a single judgment, but on long-term relationship maintenance. He frequently visited senior figures in different cities, booked restaurants, and asked Chinese friends to bring back Moutai liquor. When the market was good, these meals were like information exchanges; when the market was bad, they were like connections for survival. In the past, when Hidehisa's Mercedes parked in front of a Japanese restaurant, his Rolex peeking out from his sleeve, and the financial bigwig got into the passenger seat, he would have a strange feeling: he was finally being seen by this circle. In this circle, money wasn't just capital, but also a voice. When your account has weight, jokes are accepted, and judgments are listened to; when your account is light, you feel lighter too.
The bull market created many exciting stories: screenshots of profits, resignations, photos of sports cars. People seemed to finally hold their heads high and announce that they were going to sever ties with their humble past and transform from "employees" to "people who choose their own lives".
Some South Koreans I know actually quit their jobs after making money in the stock market, some even surrendering their civil service work badges. The basic salary for a junior civil servant in South Korea is about 2.13 million won (approximately 10,000 RMB), even lower than the standard minimum monthly salary in 2026. The so-called "iron rice bowl," in the face of Seoul's rent, cost of living, and class anxiety, is often just a bowl that won't break, but also won't be full. So, for them, a sudden extra sum of money in their accounts is not just profit, but a ticket to escape their old ways. Some traded stocks full-time, while others took their profits to Vietnam to start a new life.
03 The Illusion of Class Stratification Revealed by the Bull Market: Opportunity Doesn't Guarantee Everyone Equal Opportunities
If you only look at the account, the South Korean bull market seems like an opportunity; but if you look at the life behind the account, it's more like a stress test. Stocks are starting to examine everyone's life in reverse: wages, debts, children, parents, houses, and marriages are all being brought back to the table.
In 2022, after the collapse of the previous metaverse market boom in South Korea, Soo-gu also sold his Mercedes to pay off his loan. On the day he sold the car, he washed it thoroughly, even patting the floor mats several times. After the transaction, he took the subway home alone. That day, he realized for the first time that asset depreciation wasn't an abstract concept. It was concrete—meaning he could no longer drive to see friends or casually treat people to meals.
But even in his most desperate moments, he didn't sell the Rolex. He locked it in a small safe, next to several loan application forms. "Selling it would be admitting that the upward trajectory of his life was never truly his."
Fortunately, in this bull market, Xiu Jiu was able to turn things around thanks to his family's support. His father helped him deal with some of his high-interest debts and gave him some money. With the three family accounts combined, Xiu Jiu finally had the capital to re-enter the market and regain the confidence to sit at the dinner table.
The stock market creates an illusion of upward mobility for ordinary people. A friend of a friend, Chengmin, works at an auto parts company near Ulsan, and his wife is a primary school teacher. He made some money in this round of market activity. At first, after seeing the screenshots of his profits, his wife said, "In that case, let's go on a trip overseas?" Chengmin immediately replied, "No, we haven't sold yet, and there are taxes to pay, plus we have to consider our parents' insurance premiums."
In South Korea, even if you earn money, it's hard to truly own it. A 1 billion won (approximately 4.47 million RMB) apartment requires an initial purchase tax of nearly 30 million won (approximately 150,000 RMB); subsequent property taxes, loan interest, and maintenance fees are paid annually. Meanwhile, medical and nursing insurance for parents costs another 400,000 to 500,000 won per month. So, while the profit appears to be in the account, it's actually already been pre-paid for the house, parents, and future children. The only indulgence Sungmin dared to make was upgrading his lunch from 10,000 won (approximately 45 RMB) soup to 12,000 won (approximately 54 RMB).
Their expectations about when they can have children are constantly evolving. Initially, it was simply about saving enough for a decent rented apartment (South Korea's housing system is somewhere between buying and renting, where a large deposit is used to exchange for a period of "free living"; in Seoul, the deposit for a small rented apartment is approximately 100-300 million won, about 450,000-1.34 million yuan, while a regular apartment often costs over 600 million won, starting at about 2.68 million yuan). Later, it became about moving into a nice neighborhood or a well-known brand apartment. Then, it became about sending their children to good kindergartens and English-language schools, ideally following an elite education path, and even studying abroad.
In South Korea, a child's starting point isn't the maternity ward, but rather which neighborhood or apartment building their parents live in. Where a child lives often determines at what age they are placed on which track or path in life.
The semiconductor bull market has revealed an even more nuanced hierarchy of identities.
Tae-hoon is a student who asked me to tutor him in Chinese. He works in equipment maintenance at a semiconductor cooperation company (a downstream partner of SK Hynix) in Cheongju, but he's not a full-time employee of SK Hynix. That dark work uniform, which used to be just a piece of work clothes that would get dusty every day, has recently taken on a new value. On Korean secondhand platforms, the SK Hynix jacket is listed as "the best outfit for a blind date."
Tae-hoon had also attended a blind date arranged by his parents. Upon learning he worked at a semiconductor-related company, the other person quickly asked, "Is it with SK Hynix?" He paused, then said, "It's a subsidiary, not a direct employee." The other person laughed and said, "But the semiconductor industry is doing very well right now." It seems the South Korean semiconductor boom has illuminated the entire industry, but the benefits aren't evenly distributed. Some are in the heart of conglomerates, some in subsidiary companies; some receive huge performance bonuses, some just work more overtime; some gain value in the dating market because of their company logo, some are simply swept along by the wave.
This is also the root cause of the increasing tension among many young South Koreans: the normal upward mobility channels are becoming increasingly narrow, while the asset market is like one of the few doors that haven't been completely closed yet. It's dangerous behind those doors, but the number of people outside is growing.
The most fascinating thing about a bull market is that it makes people believe that social class can be rewritten with a single purchase. The most cruel thing about a bull market is that when a downturn comes, social class is immediately revealed again.
On May 20th, the South Korean market began to experience sharp fluctuations. The bull market that had been booming just days before suddenly revealed a different face. While the KOSPI index only appeared to be down 0.86%, over twenty sectors declined across the board, with the number of declining stocks being approximately nine times that of rising stocks; foreign investors net sold about 2.95 trillion won in a single day. During the day, people could say it was a correction, a shakeout by foreign investors; but by nightfall, the explanations had gradually faded.
On the night of the stock market turmoil, Xiujiu had arranged to have dinner with a senior figure in finance at a Japanese restaurant in Gangnam. In the past, when he met people like that, they would arrive in a Mercedes, a Rolex peeking out from their cuffs. Later, he sold the Mercedes and now drives a used Kia. The old steering wheel, the worn-out seats, and that watch seemed out of place, so he wasn't wearing it that day.
The finance guy arrived right on time. When the second glass of wine was poured, the other man asked, "What's your take on semiconductors lately?" Xiujiu picked up a small piece of sashimi, his chopsticks pausing in mid-air. Usually, he would have answered immediately, as if afraid of being forgotten at the table if he was even half a second late. But this time, he didn't rush. He dipped the fish in wasabi soy sauce, ate it, and only then put down his chopsticks.
After the money returned to his account, even his silence changed.
He looked up and said, "Brother, this time I only plan to buy in batches. If I mess around again, I'll die." When the dinner ended, the finance guy patted him on the shoulder and said, "Xiujiu, you did well this time."
Those who were truly struck hardest were those who had bet everything and could never recover. Donghyuk, a friend of Soo-gu, was one of them. He used to be a marketing manager at a large company, living in an apartment in Gangnam with his wife, driving an imported car, and buying Korean beef at the supermarket on weekends. Back then, he also spoke in the Kakao finance group, where people called him "Donghyuk hyung." This "hyung" is a common title in Korea, but it carries weight. It signifies experience, money, judgment, and that people are willing to listen to him.
When the metaverse took off, he believed he had caught the next wave of the internet. He started with small investments, but gradually increased his holdings. Each loss fueled his desire to prove he hadn't made a mistake. He used personal loans and stock-backed loans. His wife cautioned, "Isn't this too risky?" He replied, "Missing this cycle will be a lifelong regret."
Later, he truly regretted it. On the day he sold the house in Jiangnan, everything proceeded smoothly, like a process involving the real estate agent, the contract, the bank, and loan repayments. His wife stood in the empty living room, looking at the hooks still hanging on the wall, and asked him, "How did we get to this point?" He couldn't answer. Finally, his wife said, "What I can't stand more than you losing money is your refusal to face reality."
Years later, another bull market has arrived. Those who used to explain market trends at dinner tables now deliver takeout to the offices where people discuss market movements. In the old stock trading groups, someone jokingly calls him "Takeout Bro." The "bro" is still there, but the respect has been completely stripped away.
This is the most unequal aspect of a bull market. On the surface, everyone can download a securities app and open an account, but those who can truly bear the risks of opportunity are never everyone.
Sometimes I see myself in these comparisons. I ride the same subway as them, eat similarly priced soup and rice, and spend the same nights watching the red and blue numbers flashing on my stock trading app. My anxiety has just taken a different form; it's not a mortgage, nor debt, but another kind of uncertainty: Where should I stay? Where is my future?
Sometimes, my Korean friends ask me, "Is it tough there too?" When they talk about China, they sometimes say with a hint of envy, "You have a big market and lots of opportunities." Other times, they add, "But you must be working really hard too." Perhaps they just want to confirm whether their exhaustion is an isolated failure or a situation that their generation has collectively reached.
I also find it hard to detach myself from this, because young Chinese people also break down their lives into individual building blocks: work, rent, parents, marriage, buying a house, children. Each block doesn't seem too heavy on its own, but once you put them on that transparent template, you realize the pattern has already been predetermined. You think you're slowly piecing together your life, but actually you're carefully trying not to put any of the blocks in the wrong place.
I'm increasingly convinced that the "laissez-faire" attitude of young South Koreans isn't a lack of desire. On the contrary, it's that their desires have been disciplined too quietly. They no longer manifest as grand pronouncements, but are condensed into bills and statements. The bull market is so dazzling because it briefly makes people forget about these statements; it's direct, brutal, and alluring. Buy today, rise tomorrow, and your account immediately tells you: have you been seen by the times?
Behind this form lies a body that has endured far too long. The sudden resumption of heartbeat caused the line on the screen to jump. But that jump wasn't a cure. Once the market calms down, young South Koreans will have to return to their lives and continue facing that medical record.
That medical record didn't just list one person's name. In 2025, South Korea's Gini coefficient for household net worth rose to 0.625, with the wealthiest 10% of households holding nearly half of the nation's net worth; informal workers earned only about 65% of the wages of formal workers. South Korean society isn't a place where everyone moves forward together; some rise higher through wealth, while others are already stratified by their labor income. The poor feel they can't climb higher, and the middle class fears falling behind. The glass ceiling created by the chaebols, however, remains impenetrable.
Later I realized that the bull market started to replace the weather in South Korea not because people stopped caring about rain. Rain falls on everyone, but a bull market doesn't.
The subway line 2 pulled into the station as usual. Some people looked up at the weather, while others looked down at Samsung and SK Hynix. The doors opened and closed again. Some people squeezed in, while others were left outside.
(All names in this article are pseudonyms)
