Young people in South Korea make a "final effort" in the epic bull market

Core Viewpoint

01 Nationwide Stock Trading

To wake up early to watch the market, South Koreans have further "evolved" their sleep patterns. Mornings for South Koreans used to start with checking the weather; now they begin with their securities app.

This is a bull market that has made ordinary people stake their "fate." As of early June, the KOSPI index has risen over 108% this year, surpassing the rise of the Nasdaq 100 during the 1999 internet bubble 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 soared 86% this year to about $5 trillion, making it the sixth-largest stock market in the world.

By early May, the number of securities accounts in South Korea had exceeded 105 million, more than double the total population; on May 27, the Korea Exchange launched its first leveraged ETF for a single stock, tracking Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix, two core tech stocks in South Korea. The high leverage characteristic of these products carries significant risks, and regulators mandated that buyers complete an online "risk" education course in advance. As a result, the online education website crashed briefly on the day the ETF launched. Thus, the stock market, through Samsung and Hynix, has invaded the commutes, lunch breaks, group chats, and family budgets of ordinary people.

Minji is one of the young people who opened an account during this wave. I met Minji during a part-time job. She is 29 years old and comes from Gyeongsangbuk-do, which is somewhat like South Korea's "Northeast old industrial base": factories, ports, silent parents, and increasingly fewer young people. After graduating, she moved to Seoul to work in an advertising company. The job sounds respectable, but after deducting insurance and taxes, she only takes home 2.8 million won (about 13,000 RMB) each month. After paying rent, transportation, meals, and phone bills, the remaining money quickly disappears.

She lives in Sinlim-dong, a place somewhat like Beijing's Tiantongyuan, crowded with office workers, civil service exam takers, convenience store night shift workers, and recent graduates. The cheapest housing in South Korea is called "banjiha," which is damp and dark, with a risk of flooding during the rainy season. Minji has crawled from a banjiha to ground level, living in a small room with a monthly rent of about 600,000 won (about 3,000 RMB) and a deposit of 10 million won (about 50,000 RMB). The room is small, but it has a window, light, and a sense of "at least still moving upward."

If nothing unexpected happens, Minji would work at the advertising company for a few years, with a slow salary increase; then marry an ordinary office worker, combine savings, parental support, and bank loans, and move to a new city apartment on the outskirts of Seoul or Gyeonggi-do. It seems she has finally moved from the countryside to Seoul, from a banjiha to ground level, and from monthly rent to an apartment. But essentially, it is just paying rent to the landlord in youth and paying interest to the bank in middle age. So-called stability is merely a more respectable name for insecurity.

It was precisely when this path was becoming narrower that the stock market entered her life. It is dangerous, yet it feels more like an exit than the life composed of salaries and rents. When the subway line 2 arrives at Sinlim Station, she gets pushed onto the train. Previously, on the subway, she would first check KakaoTalk (South Korea's "WeChat"); now, she opens the securities app first. When she bought only two shares for the first time, she felt a bit shy, as if she were imitating others' wealth. But compared to losses, she fears more that in a few years, when everyone talks about this semiconductor bull market, she will be like those who missed out on housing prices, the crypto market, and the AI boom in US stocks, only able to say, "I didn't buy back then."

Compared to a single white-collar worker who can feed themselves without worries, family users are more cautious about stock trading.

Junho is the boyfriend of a senior sister from my school, 33 years old. The two have been graduated for three years but are still not married. He commutes daily from Incheon to work on Yeouido, earning a decent salary. He has an Excel sheet detailing his savings for a full tax deposit, wedding budget, and parents' medical reserve funds. In South Korea, an ordinary wedding, including venue, banquet, wedding dress, and makeup, can easily cost around 30 million won (about 150,000 RMB); adding the full tax deposit for a newlywed home immediately turns marriage into a bill of several hundred million won. Junho does not not want to get married; it’s just that his spreadsheet is not yet complete. He used to believe that as long as he filled it out step by step, life would always move forward. But after this bull market, he feels for the first time that the spreadsheet is too slow. By the time he entered the market, stock prices were already high, so he only bought a little to test the waters.

"Is it too late now?" is the "FOMO" sentiment that looms over ordinary South Koreans. Eunju, who works at the front desk of a dermatology clinic I often visit, resigned to stay home after her child was born. In her mom group, discussions that used to revolve around English academies and pediatricians have recently shifted entirely to stocks. Eunju is also eager to jump in, but she first thinks about the family budget. The money looks like it’s in the account, but it has already been allocated for her child, husband, and parents' living expenses. She hesitates to take action.

Among all her friends, Siu-kyu is the one who has been most successful in this bull market. As an experienced investor, he is the type who has treated the stock market as a second life for a long time, watching financial news on the treadmill and casually opening the securities app after exercising. Since this semiconductor bull market began, he often jokingly messages me: "Today, each of my three accounts made 20 million won (about 90,000 RMB), I’ll treat you to Korean beef tonight." Sometimes he says, "I lost a Ferrari today." This sounds exaggerated, but it reflects a new language in this bull market: framing losses as sports cars also means he has regained the right to speak.

His father and sister have entrusted him with their funds for stock trading. This is not just Siu-kyu's story. In this bull market in South Korea, more and more young people are not only using their savings but also borrowing family funds to buy stocks, and even directly borrowing money from securities companies to enter the market. South Korean media cited statistics from the Korea Financial Investment Association, stating that as of this year, the daily average scale of "borrowing money to trade stocks" has risen to about 33.8 trillion won, setting a monthly historical high. By May 21, the overall balance of borrowed money for stock purchases in South Korea had risen to 36 trillion won. Stock prices are rising, while ordinary people's credit and future are being staked in advance.

These crazily influxing South Korean retail investors are called "ants," with young retail investors referred to as "young ants." This term carries a subtle sense of fate. Ants are too small to walk upright, moving along the ground, carrying a bit of capital, judgment, and luck in the vast financial market, yet "they" still rush into this crowd. Not because they all believe they can beat the market, but because they know that standing still is equally dangerous.

02 The Bull Market is Widening the Wealth and Class Gap Among South Koreans

No one will initially admit that they bought stocks out of fear of being left behind by the times. They will say they are just trying a little; they will say everyone is watching Samsung and Hynix, and it would be strange not to. But ultimately, what weighs heavily on their hearts is often not greed, but a sense of absence.

This is how Minji began buying stocks. She does not understand financial reports and cannot articulate the semiconductor cycle; she only knows that HBM (High Bandwidth Memory) is hot, SK Hynix is rising fast, and everyone in the group is saying "it's not too late yet." One night, she met with college classmates in Hongdae. As soon as her friend sat down, he opened the securities app to show her that the Hynix shares he bought last year had risen significantly. He spoke casually: "I just bought a little, didn’t expect it to rise this much." Minji smiled and said, "That's great." On her way home that day, she stood by the subway door, looking at her reflection in the glass. She suddenly felt very tired. Not because her friend made money, but because of the tone of "just bought a little." For some, that casualness is a luxury that others cannot afford.

In the South Korean workplace, "salary poverty" is becoming a topic of discussion. "Recently, it's not people working; it's stocks working." "Labor income has become the beggar in the bull market." Even without fantasizing about overnight wealth, ordinary people who work diligently to save money have become "pitiful."

Junho realizes that the life order he has worked hard to build is being challenged. He is clearly still trying to live, yet suddenly feels like a poor person. The so-called "suddenly becoming poor" does not mean someone is truly bankrupt, but that the reference point has changed. His girlfriend sometimes says, "You should learn to invest too; others buy Hynix and make a deposit in a few months." In the past, Junho compared salaries, positions, and years of service with others; now, he is forced to compare holdings, purchase times, and account returns.

Housewife Eunju has not truly entered the market, so she has not incurred actual losses, but she gradually feels a gap between herself and others. Once, someone in the mom group said they made money in stocks and planned to transfer their child to a more expensive English academy. Her child is still in the current ordinary tutoring class. The teacher is very serious and grades assignments meticulously. However, when the moms mention the teacher, they always add lightly, "The person is responsible, but their education is just a bit ordinary." In South Korea's education market, whether a teacher is from SKY (the acronym for Seoul National University, Korea University, and Yonsei University, the top three universities) or has overseas experience, and whether their accent sounds like a "native speaker," becomes a price tag in parents' eyes. The bull market has widened the distance between children who were originally at the same starting point.

The stock market is a metaphor for social circles. Siu-kyu understands better than anyone that trading stocks in South Korea is sometimes not just about opening the securities app and placing orders. It also involves joining groups, reading reports, maintaining relationships, treating others to meals, giving gifts, and even learning to discern which information is genuine and which is just someone trying to offload their shares.

A few years ago, he was just a small player in the Kakao financial group. The group was called "Market Learning Room," which sounded like an ordinary study group, but in reality, it resembled a small class club: former brokers, asset managers, veteran investors, and a few people like him who wanted to climb up.

Every morning at 8:30, the group becomes active. Someone posts about the closing of US stocks, someone shares institutional reports, someone screenshots foreign investment trends; whoever makes accurate judgments, shares information quickly, and still has capital has a voice. Those who continue to incur losses find no one responds to them, and they gradually disappear or are "kicked out" of the group. Many such stock trading groups operate, filter, and narrow down in South Korea, resembling the continuous narrowing of upward social circles.

Siu-kyu is taken care of by "financial big brothers," not just through a single judgment but through long-term relationship maintenance. He often visits seniors in different cities, books restaurants, and asks Chinese friends to bring Moutai liquor. When the market is good, meals feel like information exchanges; when the market is bad, meals feel like life-saving relationships. In the past, Siu-kyu's Mercedes parked outside a Japanese restaurant, and his Rolex peeked out from his sleeve. When the financial big brother sat in the passenger seat, he felt a sense of illusion: he was finally seen by this circle. In such circles, money is not just capital; it is also a form of voice. When accounts have weight, jokes are responded to, and judgments are listened to; when accounts are light, people feel lighter too.

The bull market has created many exciting stories: profit screenshots, resignations, sports car photos, as if people have finally raised their heads high, boldly announcing their intention to sever ties with their previously humble lives, transforming from "workers" to "choosers of life."

Some South Koreans I know have indeed quit their jobs after making money in the stock market, and some even handed in their civil servant badges. The basic salary for junior civil servants in South Korea is about 2.13 million won (about 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, prices, and class anxiety, often becomes just a bowl that won't break but also won't hold much rice. Therefore, a sudden influx of money into their accounts is not just profit but a ticket to escape their original trajectory. Some become full-time investors, while others take the money they earned from trading stocks to Vietnam, starting a new life.

03 The Class Illusion Reflected by the Bull Market: Not Everyone is Equal in Front of Opportunity

If you only look at the accounts, the South Korean bull market seems like an opportunity; if you look at the lives behind the accounts, it resembles a pressure test. Stocks begin to scrutinize everyone's life in reverse: salaries, debts, children, parents, houses, and marriages are all laid back on the table.

In 2022, after the last wave of the metaverse market collapsed, Siu-kyu also sold his Mercedes to pay off loans. On the day he sold the car, he cleaned it thoroughly, even washing 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 is not an abstract term. It becomes concrete to the point where he can no longer drive to see friends or casually treat others.

However, at his lowest point, he did not sell his Rolex. He locked it in a small safe, alongside several loan documents. "If I sell it, it would mean admitting that that rising life never belonged to me."

Fortunately, in this round of the bull market, Siu-kyu managed to turn things around with his family's support. His father helped him handle some high-interest debts and gave him some money. With the combined accounts of his family, Siu-kyu finally had the capital to re-enter the market and regained the confidence to sit back at the dining table.

The stock market creates an "illusion" of class ascension for ordinary people. A friend of a friend, Chengmin, works at an auto parts company near Ulsan, while his wife is an elementary school teacher. He made some money in this round of the market, and at first, when his wife saw the profit screenshots, she said, "In that case, let's go on a trip abroad?" Chengmin immediately replied, "No, I haven't sold yet, and there are taxes to consider, plus we need to think about my parents' insurance costs."

In South Korea, even when money is earned, it is hard to truly belong to oneself. A 1 billion won (about 4.47 million RMB) apartment requires an initial payment of nearly 30 million won (about 150,000 RMB) for taxes; subsequent property taxes, loan interests, and maintenance fees must be paid every year. Additionally, parents' medical insurance and care insurance cost around 400,000 to 500,000 won monthly. Thus, the profits that seem to be in the account have already been preemptively allocated to housing, parents, and future children. The only indulgence Chengmin dares to allow himself is upgrading his lunch from a 10,000 won (about 45 RMB) soup rice to 12,000 won (about 54 RMB).

Their imaginations about when they can have children are also constantly being upgraded. Initially, they just wanted to save enough for a decent jeonse (a housing system in South Korea that allows for a high deposit in exchange for a period of "free living rights"; in Seoul, a small jeonse deposit is about 100 million to 300 million won, approximately 450,000 to 1.34 million RMB, while ordinary apartments often cost over 600 million won, starting at about 2.68 million RMB), but later it became necessary to move into a good neighborhood or a big brand apartment. Eventually, it turned into wanting their child to attend a good kindergarten, an English academy, and ideally follow an elite educational track, even studying abroad.

In South Korea, a child's starting point is not the delivery room but where their parents live, which neighborhood, and which apartment. Where a child lives often determines which track they will be sent to from a young age.

The semiconductor bull market also reflects finer identity rankings.

Taehun is a student who comes to me for Chinese tutoring, working in equipment maintenance at a semiconductor partner company in Cheongju, but he is not a formal employee of SK Hynix. That dark work uniform, which used to just get dusty every day, has recently gained another kind of value. On South Korea's second-hand platforms, SK Hynix jackets are labeled as "best outfits for blind dates."

Taehun has also participated in blind dates arranged by his parents. When the other party heard he worked at a semiconductor-related company, they quickly asked, "Is it from Hynix?" He paused and said, "It's a partner company, not a direct employee." The other party laughed and said, "But the semiconductor industry is doing well now." It seems that the South Korean semiconductor bull market has illuminated the entire industry, but the benefits are not evenly distributed. Some are at the center of the chaebols, while others are in partner companies; some receive huge performance bonuses, while others just work more overtime; some see their company logo appreciate in the dating market, while others merely pass through this wave.

This is also the root of the increasing tension among many young South Koreans: the normal upward channels are becoming narrower, while the asset market resembles one of the few doors that have not completely closed. Behind the door is dangerous, but more and more people are outside the door.

The most alluring aspect of the bull market is that it makes people believe that class can be rewritten with a single purchase. The most brutal aspect of the bull market is that when it falls, it immediately reveals class distinctions again.

On May 20, the South Korean market began to fluctuate violently. The bull market, which had felt like a festival just days before, suddenly revealed another face. The KOSPI only dropped 0.86% on the surface, but over twenty sectors fell across the board, with the number of declining stocks about nine times that of rising stocks; foreign investors net sold about 29.5 trillion won in a single day. During the day, people could still say it was a correction, that foreign capital was washing out; by late night, explanations gradually quieted down.

On the night of the market turmoil, Siu-kyu arranged to have dinner with a financial big brother at a Japanese restaurant in Gangnam. In the past, when meeting such people, he would drive his Mercedes and let his Rolex peek out from his sleeve. After selling the Mercedes, he was now driving a second-hand Kia. The old steering wheel and worn seats, paired with that watch, felt out of place, so he didn't wear it that day.

The financial big brother arrived punctually, and as the second cup of alcohol was poured, he asked, "What do you think of semiconductors lately?" Siu-kyu picked up a small piece of sashimi, pausing with his chopsticks in mid-air. In the past, he would have immediately responded, fearing that a half-second delay would make him forgotten at the table. But this time, he did not rush. He dipped the fish slice in wasabi soy sauce, ate it, and then put down his chopsticks.

After money returned to his account, even silence felt different.

He looked up and said, "Brother, this time I plan to buy in batches; being reckless will lead to disaster." At the end of the meal, the financial big brother patted his shoulder and said, "Siu-kyu, this time it feels good."

What truly gets hit are those who have staked everything and can no longer turn back. Siu-kyu's friend Donghyuk is one of them. He used to be a market manager at a large company, living in an apartment in Gangnam with his wife, driving an imported car, and shopping for Korean beef on weekends. Back then, he also spoke in the Kakao financial group, where others called him "Donghyuk brother." The term "brother" is common in South Korea but carries weight. It signifies experience, money, judgment, and that others are willing to listen to him.

When the metaverse hype began, he believed he had grasped the next generation of the internet. Initially, he made small purchases, but as he bought more, each loss made him more eager to prove he was not wrong in the beginning. He used credit loans and stock collateral loans. His wife reminded him, "Isn't it too risky?" He replied, "If I miss this cycle, I will regret it for life."

Later, he truly regretted it. On the day he sold the apartment in Gangnam, everything felt like a process: the agent, the contract, the bank, the repayments. His wife stood in the empty living room, looking at the hooks on the wall that had not yet been removed, and asked him, "How did we end up here?" 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 once explained market trends at the dining table can now only deliver takeout to those discussing market trends in offices. In the original stock trading group, someone jokingly called him "takeout brother." The "brother" still lingers, but the respect has been drained.

This is the most unequal aspect of the bull market. On the surface, everyone can download the securities app, everyone can open an account, but those who can truly bear the risks of opportunity have never been everyone.

Sometimes, I also see myself in this contrast. I ride the same subway, eat soup rice at similar prices, and have seen the red and blue numbers jumping in the securities app on the same nights. My anxiety has merely taken on a different shape; it is not about mortgages or debts, but another kind of uncertainty: where should I stay, where is my future?

Sometimes, South Korean friends ask me if things are also competitive where I come from. When talking about China, they sometimes express a bit of envy, saying your market is large and there are many opportunities; sometimes they add, "But you must be struggling too." Perhaps they just want to confirm whether their fatigue is an isolated failure or a shared predicament of this generation.

I find it hard to extract myself because young people in China are also breaking their lives into small pieces: work, rent, parents, marriage, buying a house, children; each piece alone does not seem too heavy, but once placed on that transparent template, it becomes clear that the pattern has already been predetermined. You think you are slowly piecing together life, but in reality, you are cautiously ensuring that no piece is misplaced.

I increasingly feel that the "lying flat" of young South Koreans has never been devoid of desire. On the contrary, their desires have been disciplined to be too quiet. They no longer appear with grandiose statements but are compressed into bills. The bull market is so glaring because it momentarily makes people forget this spreadsheet; it is direct, crude, and tempting. Buy today, rise tomorrow, and the account immediately tells you: whether you have been seen by the times.

But behind this spreadsheet lies a body that has endured for too long. The sudden return of a heartbeat makes the line on the screen jump. But that jump is not healing. Once the market quiets down, young South Koreans must return to their original lives, continuing to face that medical record.

The medical record does not only bear one person's name. In 2025, South Korea's household net asset Gini coefficient rose to 0.625, with the richest 10% of households holding nearly half of the country's net assets; non-regular workers earn only about 65% of regular workers' wages. South Korean society does not move forward together; instead, some people move further away with assets, while others see their labor income divided into levels. The poor feel they cannot enter, while the middle class fears they will fall. The ceiling formed by the chaebols is as solid as a fortress.

Later, I understood that the bull market began to replace the weather for South Koreans, not because people no longer care about the rain. Rain falls on everyone, but the bull market does not.

The subway line 2 arrives as usual; some people look up at the weather, while others look down at Samsung and Hynix. The doors open and then close again. Some squeeze in, while others are blocked outside.