South Korean Young People Make a “Final Bet” Amid an Epic Bull Market
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South Korean Young People Make a “Final Bet” Amid an Epic Bull Market
South Koreans, averaging two stock accounts each, are wildly betting on the chip bull market; behind the nationwide frenzy of stock trading and wealth creation lies young people’s survival anxiety and harsh reality as they attempt to break through class barriers.
Navigating Web3 tides with focused insightsOriginal text: Li Yuning, Every Person Daily
In the first half of 2026, an epic bull market tied to the semiconductor industry swept South Korea. The KOSPI Index doubled within six months; Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix became the core drivers of this rally—fundamentally reshaping the life trajectories of countless ordinary South Koreans.
With a total population of just over 50 million, South Korea now boasts more than 105 million securities accounts—averaging two per person. A nationwide stock-trading frenzy has reached unprecedented intensity, while margin trading volumes have repeatedly hit record highs, significantly amplifying systemic risk.
People who once focused solely on work and daily life have rushed into the market: some resigned to trade full-time; others monitor stock prices from their office desks or during commutes. Stocks have evolved from mere investment instruments into a shared language for discussing fate itself. Countless young South Koreans view the stock market as their last chance to break free from stagnation and achieve upward mobility—driven by deep-seated fear of being left behind by history.
This article adopts the perspective of a Chinese national living in South Korea. Through interviews with ordinary retail investors across diverse backgrounds, it peels back the surface-level euphoria of the bull market to examine the underlying survival anxieties, class entrapment, and broader social unease fueling this national speculative fever. Below, enjoy:
Li Yuning is a Chinese national residing in Seoul, South Korea. In 2022, she resigned from her job in China, moved to South Korea to study Korean and pursue a Ph.D., and later joined a local research institution after graduation. Her routine consisted of checking emails in the morning, writing reports during the day, and dining with friends at night. For a long time, the stock market remained distant from her daily life.
That changed only earlier this year, when she opened her first South Korean brokerage account. On her smartphone screen, successive pop-ups appeared—identity verification, account linkage, and transaction consent forms—followed by a cascade of red and blue numbers. Over the past six months, these digits have functioned as the “code” governing South Koreans’ fates.
The current rare bull market—dubbed an “epic” rally inextricably linking South Korea’s national fortunes to the semiconductor cycle—has propelled the KOSPI Index (Korea Composite Stock Price Index) from 4,000 to 8,000 points in just six months. Nearly 80% of this surge stems from Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix alone.
Especially since spring, friends began frequently discussing Samsung Electronics, SK Hynix, and U.S. market closes. Previously, stocks were discussed like technical subjects; now they’re debated like matters of destiny. Some take leave to watch the markets; others refresh their accounts inside restrooms; still others quit jobs upon KOSPI gains to become full-time investors. They no longer say they’re unemployed—they declare they’ve finally “freed themselves from wages.”
One of Li Yuning’s friends previously worked in project management at a trading firm in Gangnam. Last year, he complained about meager year-end bonuses—but recently posted a photo of a sports car steering wheel in their group chat, captioned only: “Ha-nik-i sa-jun cha” (“A car bought for me by Hynix”). An unspoken comparison surfaced: Why do some people, through just a few well-timed purchases, instantly outpace others’ years of salary—even though both work similar hours and endure similar overtime?
Yet few seriously discuss the bull market’s dark side. Data shows South Korea’s securities accounts now total approximately 105 million—more than double its 50-million population. Today, a South Korean can lack housing or children—but will still, on average, hold two stock accounts.
Thus, the stock market has prematurely entered ordinary people’s lives. But when capital originates from loans, home equity, parents’ retirement savings, or children’s education funds, losses cease to be mere numerical declines—they morph into sleepless nights, unanswered phone calls, and bodies physically unable to function at the office the next day.
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 sensationalist fiction. For many ordinary people, stocks are never just numbers on a screen—they are tethered to debt, marriage stability, parental care funds, and even one’s fundamental capacity to believe in oneself.
Li Yuning occupies a dual role—as both observer and participant. She has been swept up in this market frenzy, yet simultaneously discerns the psychological state and generational portrait of South Korea’s youth beneath the surface. She deliberately met with Korean friends to explore how this bull market is redefining ordinary lives.
“Young ‘ants’ wager their meager chips as if this were their final opportunity to turn things around. After all, things couldn’t get much worse.”
Below is her account:
01 Nationwide Stock Trading
To wake up early and monitor markets, South Koreans have effectively “evolved” away another hour of sleep. Mornings used to begin with weather forecasts; now they begin with stock-trading apps.
This is a bull market demanding ordinary citizens stake their very “fates.” As of early June, the KOSPI Index had surged over 108% year-to-date—surpassing the Nasdaq’s 100-point rise during the 1999 internet bubble and exceeding historical peaks from South Korea’s late-1980s industrial boom. Total market capitalization of South Korean listed companies soared 86% year-to-date to roughly $5 trillion, catapulting the nation into the world’s sixth-largest stock market.
By early May, South Korea’s securities accounts exceeded 105 million—more than double its national population. On May 27, the Korea Exchange launched its first single-stock leveraged ETFs, tracking Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix—the two pillars of South Korea’s tech sector. Due to their high-leverage risks, regulators mandated purchasers complete an online “risk education” course beforehand. On launch day, the educational website crashed temporarily under traffic overload. Thus, via Samsung and Hynix, the stock market infiltrated commuters’ routines, lunch breaks, group chats, and household budgets.
Minji was among the young people who opened accounts amid this wave. I met Minji through a part-time job. At 29, she hails from North Gyeongsang Province—a region resembling South Korea’s “Northeast Rust Belt”: factories, ports, stoic elders, and dwindling youth. After graduating, she moved to Seoul to work in advertising planning. Though seemingly prestigious, her post-tax monthly income amounted to only 2.8 million won (≈ RMB 13,000). Rent, transportation, meals, and mobile fees consumed nearly everything—leaving little beyond wind-blown scraps.
She lives in Sinlim-dong—a neighborhood akin to Beijing’s Tian Tong Yuan—packed with office workers, civil service exam candidates, convenience store night-shift staff, and recent graduates. South Korea’s cheapest housing is called “semi-basement”: damp, dimly lit, and prone to flooding during monsoon season. Minji has already climbed from semi-basement to ground level, renting a modest studio for about 600,000 won/month (≈ RMB 3,000), with a deposit of 10 million won (≈ RMB 50,000). Though small, the room has windows and light—and the comforting illusion that she’s still moving “upward.”
Absent unforeseen circumstances, Minji would grind for several years at her ad agency, slowly earning modest raises; eventually marry a typical corporate employee; pool savings, parental support, and bank loans to move into a new apartment on Seoul’s outskirts or in Gyeonggi Province. On the surface, she’d have journeyed from provincial town to Seoul, from semi-basement to street level, from renting to apartment ownership. Yet fundamentally, she’d merely shift from paying rent to landlords in youth to paying interest to banks in middle age. So-called “stability” is simply insecurity repackaged with a more respectable label.
It was precisely as this path narrowed that the stock market barged into her life. Dangerous? Yes. Yet it feels more like an exit than a life defined by salaries and rent. When Seoul Metro Line 2 pulls into Sinlim Station, she’s often shoved aboard. Once, she’d check KakaoTalk (South Korea’s “WeChat”) first on the train; now, she opens her brokerage app immediately. Her first purchase—just two shares—felt slightly embarrassing, as if mimicking others’ wealth. But compared to potential losses, she fears something worse: years later, hearing peers reminisce about this semiconductor bull run—and having nothing to say but, “I didn’t buy in then.”
Compared to financially unencumbered single white-collar workers, family-oriented investors approach stock trading more cautiously.
Joon-ho is the boyfriend of my senior’s older sister, aged 33. They graduated three years ago but remain unmarried. He commutes daily from Incheon to Yeouido for work, earning a decent salary. He maintains an Excel sheet listing his full-tax deposit savings, wedding budget, and parents’ medical contingency fund. In South Korea, an average wedding—including venue, banquet, bridal gown, makeup, and photography—costs nearly 30 million won (≈ RMB 150,000). Add a full-tax apartment deposit, and marriage instantly becomes a multi-hundred-million-won calculation. Joon-ho doesn’t oppose marriage—he just hasn’t finished calculating that spreadsheet. Previously, he believed filling each cell methodically would inevitably advance his life. But this bull market made him realize, for the first time, that spreadsheets move too slowly. By the time he entered, stock prices were already high—so he only dipped in tentatively.
“Is it too late now?”—this FOMO (fear of missing out) hangs over ordinary South Koreans. Eun-joo, the front-desk receptionist at a dermatology clinic I frequent, resigned after her child’s birth to stay home. Her mom group once discussed English academies and pediatricians; lately, conversations revolve entirely around stocks. Eun-joo feels tempted—but first considers her household ledger. That money may sit in her account, yet it’s already pre-allocated for her child, husband, and parents’ daily needs. She hesitates to act.
Among all my friends, Soo-gu embodies this bull market’s greatest success story. A veteran investor, he treats the stock market as his second life: watching financial news on treadmills, then opening his brokerage app post-workout. Since this semiconductor bull run began, he occasionally jokes in messages: “Today, each of my three accounts earned 20 million won (≈ RMB 90,000)—tonight’s Korean beef dinner is on me.” Sometimes he quips: “Lost a Ferrari today.” Such hyperbole sounds absurd, yet reflects a new linguistic norm of this bull market: framing losses as luxury cars signals he’s regained conversational authority.
His father and sister entrusted him with their funds for trading. Soo-gu’s story isn’t unique. Across South Korea’s current bull market, increasing numbers of young investors aren’t just using personal savings—they’re leveraging family funds or borrowing directly from securities firms. According to South Korea’s Financial Investment Association, daily margin trading volume hit a record 33.8 trillion won (≈ USD 24 billion) in April; by May 21, total outstanding margin debt rose to 36 trillion won (≈ USD 25.7 billion). Rising stock prices are matched by ordinary citizens pledging their credit—and futures—to enter early.
These frenzied retail investors are dubbed “ants”; younger ones, “youth ants.” The term carries subtle fatalism. Ants are tiny, forced to crawl along the ground, hauling modest capital, judgment, and luck through vast financial markets—yet they flood in relentlessly. Not because they all believe they’ll beat the market, but because they know standing still is equally perilous.
02 The Bull Market Is Widening Wealth and Class Divides
No one admits upfront that fear of being left behind drives their stock purchases. They’ll say they’re just “testing the waters,” or that “everyone’s watching Samsung and Hynix—ignoring them would seem odd.” Ultimately, however, what weighs heaviest isn’t greed—it’s the dread of absence.
That’s how Minji started buying stocks. She doesn’t understand financial statements or semiconductor cycles—only that HBM (High Bandwidth Memory) is hot, SK Hynix is surging, and everyone in her group chat insists “it’s not too late.” One evening, she met a university classmate in Hongdae. As soon as her friend sat down, she opened her brokerage app to show Minji how much her Hynix shares had appreciated. She spoke casually: “Just bought a bit randomly—never expected it to soar like this.” Minji smiled faintly: “That’s great.” Walking home, she stood by the subway door, gazing at her reflection in the glass. Suddenly, exhaustion overwhelmed her—not because her friend profited, but because of that offhand “bought a bit randomly.” For some, randomness is effortless; for others, it’s impossible to catch up to.
In South Korea’s workplaces, “wage poverty” has become a trending topic. “Lately, it’s not people working—it’s stocks working.” “Labor income has become beggars in the bull market.” Even without dreaming of overnight riches, ordinary people diligently saving through regular jobs now feel “pitiful.”
Joon-ho sensed his carefully constructed life order crumbling. He’s still striving—but suddenly feels poor. “Suddenly becoming poor” doesn’t mean actual bankruptcy; it means shifting reference points. His girlfriend sometimes says: “You should learn investing too—others bought Hynix and earned enough for a deposit in months.” Previously, Joon-ho compared salaries, positions, and tenure with peers; now, he’s forced to compare portfolios, entry timing, and account returns.
Homemaker Eun-joo hasn’t entered the market, so she’s suffered no real losses—yet she increasingly feels distanced from others. Once, a mom group member announced she’d use stock profits to enroll her child in a pricier English academy. Eun-joo’s child remains at their current standard cram school—where teachers are diligent and grade homework meticulously. Yet when moms mention those teachers, they quietly add: “They’re responsible, just not quite SKY-caliber.” In South Korea’s education market, whether instructors graduated from SKY universities (Seoul National, Korea, Yonsei), possess overseas experience, or speak with native-like accents—all become price tags for anxious parents. The bull market thus stretches the gap between children who started on equal footing.
The stock market functions as a metaphor for social stratification. Soo-gu understands better than most that trading in South Korea isn’t just opening an app and placing orders. It involves joining groups, reading reports, cultivating relationships, hosting dinners, giving gifts—and learning to distinguish genuine intelligence from manipulative “dumping” talk around dinner tables.
Years ago, he was merely an invisible presence in a Kakao Finance group named “Market Learning Room”—sounding like an ordinary study group, but functioning more like a micro-class club: former brokers, asset managers, seasoned investors, and a few ambitious newcomers like himself.
Every morning at 8:30 a.m., the group springs to life. Someone posts U.S. market closes; someone shares institutional reports; someone screenshots foreign investor flows. Accuracy, speed, and available capital determine whose voice carries weight—and whose fades into silence until they vanish, “ejected” from the group. Countless such trading groups operate across South Korea—filtering, narrowing, and mirroring the ever-constricting upper echelons.
Soo-gu received mentorship from “finance big brothers” not through one correct call, but via sustained relationship cultivation. He regularly visits seniors across cities, books restaurants, and asks Chinese friends to bring Maotai liquor. During bullish phases, dinners become information exchanges; during downturns, they become relationship lifelines. Once, his Mercedes parked outside a Japanese restaurant, his Rolex peeking from his cuff—when a finance brother slid into the passenger seat, Soo-gu felt a fleeting illusion: *Finally, I’m seen by this circle.* Here, money isn’t just capital—it’s voice. While your account holds weight, jokes land and judgments are heard; when it lightens, you lighten too.
The bull market spawns thrilling stories: profit screenshots, resignations, sports car photos—people seemingly exhaling triumphantly, loudly declaring they’re severing ties with humbly managed pasts, transforming from “workers” into “life architects.”
Some Koreans I know truly quit jobs after profiting—some even surrendered their civil service IDs. Junior civil servants earn roughly 2.13 million won (≈ RMB 10,000) monthly—below South Korea’s 2026 minimum wage. This “iron rice bowl” often proves less a shatterproof vessel than an unbreakable bowl perpetually half-empty, given Seoul’s rents, prices, and class anxiety. Thus, sudden account gains aren’t mere profits—they’re escape tickets from predetermined paths. Some trade full-time; others use stock earnings to relocate to Vietnam and restart entirely.
03 Class Illusions Exposed by the Bull Market: Opportunity Is Not Equal
Viewed purely through accounts, South Korea’s bull market resembles opportunity; viewed through the lives behind those accounts, it functions more like a stress test. Stocks now scrutinize every facet of life: wages, debt, children, parents, housing, and marriage—all laid bare on the table.
After the previous metaverse bubble burst in 2022, Soo-gu once sold his Mercedes to repay loans. On sale day, he washed the car meticulously—even photographing the floor mats multiple times. After the transaction, he rode the subway home alone. That day, he first grasped that asset depreciation isn’t abstract—it concretely meant no longer driving to meet friends or hosting spontaneous dinners.
Yet even at his lowest point, he refused to sell his Rolex. He locked it in a small safe beside loan documents. “Selling it would mean admitting that upward phase never truly belonged to me.”
Fortunately, in this bull market, Soo-gu rebounded with family support. His father helped settle high-interest debts and provided additional capital. Combining funds across three family accounts, Soo-gu regained market entry capital—and the confidence to reclaim his seat at the dinner table.
The stock market manufactures illusions of class mobility. A friend-of-a-friend, Seong-min, works at an auto-parts company near Ulsan; his wife teaches elementary school. He earned some profits in this rally. Initially, his wife saw the screenshot and suggested: “Let’s take an overseas trip!” Seong-min immediately replied: “No—we haven’t sold yet, plus there’s tax, and we must consider our parents’ insurance premiums.”
In South Korea, money rarely belongs fully to its earner. A 1-billion-won (≈ RMB 4.47 million) apartment demands nearly 30 million won (≈ RMB 150,000) in acquisition tax upfront; subsequent property taxes, mortgage interest, and maintenance fees recur annually. Parents’ medical and nursing insurance costs 400,000–500,000 won monthly. Thus, that profit sits visibly in the account—but is already pre-allocated to housing, parents, and future children. Seong-min’s sole indulgence? Upgrading his 10,000-won (≈ RMB 45) lunch soup-rice to 12,000 won (≈ RMB 54).
Their vision of when to have children keeps escalating too. First, they aimed to save for a decent “jeonse” (a Korean housing system blending renting and buying, where a large deposit grants rent-free residency for a fixed term—small Seoul jeonse deposits range 100–300 million won [≈ RMB 450,000–1.34 million]; standard apartments often require 600+ million won [≈ RMB 2.68 million] or more). Then, aspirations shifted to moving into a desirable “dong” (district) or branded apartment complex. Later, goals expanded to elite kindergartens, English academies, seamless enrollment in top-tier academic tracks—even overseas study.
In South Korea, a child’s starting line isn’t the delivery room—it’s the “dong” and apartment building where their parents reside. Where a child lives often dictates which competitive track they enter—and at what age.
The semiconductor bull market further exposes finer layers of social hierarchy.
Tae-hoon is my Chinese-language tutoring student, employed in equipment maintenance at a semiconductor “cooperating company” (a supplier in SK Hynix’s ecosystem) in Cheongju—not a direct SK Hynix employee. That dark work uniform, once merely dusty daily attire, now carries unexpected social value. On Korean secondhand platforms, SK Hynix jackets are marketed as “ideal dating outfits.”
Tae-hoon attended matchmaking sessions arranged by his parents. Upon learning he worked in the semiconductor industry, his date asked eagerly: “Are you at Hynix?” He paused: “I’m at a cooperating company—not a direct employee.” She smiled: “Well, semiconductors are booming right now.” Indeed, the bull market illuminates the entire industry—but benefits aren’t evenly distributed. Some occupy the chaebol center; others orbit peripheral suppliers. Some receive massive performance bonuses; others merely work longer hours. Some see their marital prospects rise with their company logo; others are merely brushed by the tide of this frenzy.
This imbalance explains why many young South Koreans grow increasingly tense: conventional upward mobility narrows, while asset markets resemble one of the few remaining partially open doors. The door leads to danger—but crowds gather outside.
The bull market’s allure lies in its promise that class can be rewritten with a single purchase. Its cruelty lies in how quickly downturns force class distinctions back into sharp relief.
On May 20, South Korea’s market began violent fluctuations. Days earlier, the bull market resembled a festival—now it revealed a different face. Though the KOSPI fell only 0.86%, all twenty-plus sectors declined; losing stocks outnumbered gainers nine-to-one; foreign investors net-sold ~2.95 trillion won ($2.1 billion) in a single day. During daytime, people rationalized it as “adjustment” or “foreigners shaking out weak hands.” By midnight, explanations faded into silence.
That night, Soo-gu dined with a finance brother at a Japanese restaurant in Gangnam. Previously, he’d arrive in his Mercedes, Rolex visible at his cuff. After selling the Mercedes, he drove a used Kia—its worn steering wheel and polished seats clashing awkwardly with the watch, so he left it off that night.
The finance brother arrived punctually. Over the second round of drinks, he asked: “What’s your take on semiconductors lately?” Soo-gu picked up a sliver of sashimi, pausing mid-air with chopsticks. Previously, he’d jump in immediately—terrified of being forgotten by the table for even half a second. This time, he didn’t rush. He dipped the fish in wasabi-soy sauce, ate it, then set down his chopsticks.
When money reappears in the account, even silence transforms.
He looked up: “Brother, this time I’ll only buy in batches—I’ll die if I go reckless again.” At dinner’s end, the finance brother patted his shoulder: “Soo-gu, this time feels promising.”
Those truly devastated are those who staked everything—and can’t recover. Dong-hyeok, a friend of Soo-gu’s, exemplifies this. Formerly a marketing director at a major corporation, he lived with his wife in a Gangnam apartment, drove an imported car, and bought premium Korean beef on weekends. Back then, he spoke confidently in Kakao Finance groups—others called him “Dong-hyeok Brother.” In Korean, “brother” is common—but weighted: signifying experience, money, judgment, and the willingness of others to listen.
When the metaverse craze surged, he believed he’d captured the next internet wave. Initial small purchases grew progressively larger; each loss fueled his need to prove his original conviction right. He used credit loans and stock-backed margin loans. His wife warned: “Isn’t this too risky?” He insisted: “Missing this cycle would haunt me for life.”
Later, he truly regretted it. Selling the Gangnam apartment followed a bureaucratic script—agents, contracts, banks, repayments—all proceeding mechanically. His wife stood in the empty living room, staring at wall hooks still clinging to paint, asking: “How did we get here?” He had no answer. Finally, she said: “What hurts more than your losses is your refusal to face reality.”
Years later, another bull market arrives. The man once explaining market trends over dinner now delivers takeout to offices where those same discussions occur. Former group members jokingly dub him “Takeout Brother”—retaining the honorific “brother,” yet hollowing out its respect.
This is the bull market’s deepest inequality. Superficially, anyone can download a brokerage app or open an account. Yet true capacity to bear opportunity’s risks has never belonged to all.
Sometimes, I recognize myself in these contrasts. We ride the same subway, eat similarly priced soup-rice, and stare at the same red-and-blue numbers dancing across brokerage apps at night. My anxiety merely wears a different shape—not mortgages or debt, but another uncertainty: *Where should I stay? Where does my future lie?*
Sometimes, Korean friends ask: “Is it equally intense where you’re from?” Speaking of China, they sometimes express envy: “Your market is huge, opportunities still abundant.” Other times, they add softly: “But you must be exhausted too.” Perhaps they seek reassurance—that their weariness isn’t isolated failure, but a shared condition of this generation.
I struggle to separate myself, because Chinese youth likewise fragment life into discrete beads: jobs, rent, parents, marriage, housing, children. Each bead seems manageable alone—but placed atop the transparent template, the pattern reveals itself as preordained. You think you’re slowly assembling life, yet you’re actually navigating immense care not to misplace a single bead.
Increasingly, I realize South Korea’s youth “lying flat” was never about lacking desire. Quite the opposite—their desires have been so thoroughly disciplined into silence that they no longer manifest in grand declarations, but shrink into itemized bills. The bull market shocks precisely because it briefly erases that spreadsheet—brutally, directly, seductively. Buy today, rise tomorrow, and your account instantly answers: *Have you been seen by history?*
Yet behind that spreadsheet lies a body stretched beyond endurance. A sudden heartbeat resurgence makes the chart line jump—but that pulse isn’t healing. When markets quiet, South Korea’s youth must return to their original lives, confronting that same medical record.
That record bears more than one name. In 2025, South Korea’s household net wealth Gini coefficient rose to 0.625; the top 10% hold nearly half the nation’s net wealth. Non-regular workers earn only ~65% of regular workers’ wages. South Korean society isn’t advancing uniformly—some accelerate via assets, while others find labor income itself stratified. The poor feel locked out; the middle class fears falling. Chaebol ceilings remain immovable.
Only later did I grasp why the bull market replaced weather forecasts in South Korea—not because people stopped caring about rain. Rain falls on everyone equally—but the bull market does not.
Seoul Metro Line 2 enters the station as usual. Some glance upward at weather displays; others look downward at Samsung and Hynix. Doors open, then close. Some squeeze in; others remain shut out.
(All names in this article are pseudonyms)
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