Korean Youth, Making a 'Last Stand' in an Epic Bull Market

South Korea's total population is just over 50 million, yet the number of securities accounts has exceeded 105 million. With an average of two stock accounts per person, the fervor for stock trading has reached unprecedented heights. Borrowing money to invest in stocks has repeatedly hit new highs, intensifying risk hazards.

People who once focused on their work and daily lives have flocked to the market. Some have quit their jobs to trade stocks full-time, while others watch the market on their work desks or during their commutes. Stocks have transformed from a simple investment into a topic of fate discussed by the masses. Countless young Koreans see the stock market as the last opportunity to break through their current situations and turn their lives around, diving in with the fear of being left behind by the times.

This article, from the perspective of a Chinese person living in Korea, visits ordinary investors of different backgrounds. It seeks to interpret, beyond the surface frenzy of the stock market, the underlying survival anxiety, class dilemmas of Korean youth, and the social dangers hidden beneath the national speculation craze. Enjoy:

Li Yuning is a Chinese woman living in Seoul. In 2022, she quit her job in China, went to Korea to study Korean and pursue a Ph.D., and after graduation stayed to work at a research institute in Korea. Her mornings were spent checking emails, her days writing reports, and her evenings dining with friends. For a long time, her life was not close to the stock market.

It wasn't until the beginning of this year that she opened her first Korean stock account. Identity verification, account linkage, trading agreement forms popped up one after another on her phone screen, followed by a string of red and blue numbers—the code that has dictated the fate of Koreans over the past six months.

This rare bull market since the start of this year has been called an epic rally that deeply binds Korea's national destiny with the chip cycle. The KOSPI index (Korea Composite Stock Price Index) doubled from 4,000 to over 8,000 points in half a year, with Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix contributing to nearly 80% of the gains.

Especially since this spring, friends have started talking frequently about Samsung Electronics, SK Hynix, and the U.S. stock market close. Before, they talked about stocks like a technical skill; later, they talked about stocks like fate. Some took leave to watch the market, some refreshed their accounts in the restroom, and some even quit their jobs because of KOSPI's rise, becoming full-time investors at home. They no longer said they were unemployed, but that they had finally "escaped the salary."

One of Li Yuning's friends originally worked as a project manager at a trading company in Gangnam. Last year, she was still complaining about a meager year-end bonus. A few days ago, she suddenly sent a photo of a sports car steering wheel in a group chat, captioned only: "하닉이 사준 차." (A car bought by Hynix). A covert comparison was laid bare on the table: working the same hours, putting in the same overtime, why could someone, with just a few purchases, leave behind years of someone else's salary?

But few seriously discuss the dark side of the bull market. Data shows the number of securities accounts in Korea has reached about 105 million, while the total population is just over 50 million. In today's Korea, one might not have a house or children, but on average, they own 2 stock accounts.

The stock market has thus entered the lives of ordinary people prematurely. But when the money comes from loans, homes, parents' pensions, or children's education funds, losses are no longer just shrinking numbers. They become sleepless nights, unanswered calls, and a body sitting at the office the next day, unable to work.

In December 2025, in Yongin, Korea, a man in his 40s died after telling his family he "lost 200 million won in stocks." His 9-year-old son was also found dead. This is not just a sensational story. For many ordinary people, stocks are never just numbers on a screen. They are linked to debt, marriage, parents' life savings, and determine whether one can continue to believe in themselves.

Li Yuning is both an observer and a participant. She was swept into this stock market frenzy and also gained insight into the mental state and generational portrait of Korean youth behind it. She specifically met with her Korean friends to talk about how this bull market is repricing ordinary lives.

"The young 'ants' are staking their limited chips, as if this is the last chance for a turnaround. Anyway, it can't get much worse."

The following is her narrative:

01 Nationwide Stock Trading

To wake up early to watch the market, Koreans' sleep has been further "evolved" away. The Korean morning, which once began with checking the weather, now starts with the securities app.

This is a bull market that has ordinary people betting their "fate." By early June, the KOSPI index had risen over 108% year-to-date. This gain surpassed the Nasdaq-100's rise during the 1999 dot-com bubble and also exceeded the historical peak during Korea's industrial boom in the late 1980s. The total market capitalization of Korean listed companies surged 86% year-to-date to about $5 trillion, vaulting Korea to become the world's sixth-largest stock market.

In early May, the number of Korean securities accounts had already exceeded 105 million, more than double the total population. On May 27, the Korea Exchange launched leveraged ETFs for single stocks for the first time, initially tracking the two core Korean tech stocks, Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix. Such products carry high leverage risks, so regulators require buyers to complete an online "risk" education course beforehand. On the day the ETFs launched, the online education website was briefly overwhelmed. Thus, the stock market, via Samsung and Hynix, burst into ordinary people's commutes, lunch breaks, group chats, and family ledgers.

Minji is one of the young people who opened an account amid this frenzy. I met Minji during a part-time job. She is 29, from North Gyeongsang Province. That area is somewhat like Korea's "old industrial heartland": factories, ports, silent parents, and increasingly fewer young people. After graduation, she came to Seoul and works as a planner at an advertising agency. The job sounds respectable, but after insurance and taxes, she takes home only 2.8 million won per month (approx. 13,000 RMB). After rent, transportation, food, phone bills, what's left blows away with the wind.

She lives in Sillim-dong, a place somewhat like Beijing's Tiantongyuan, packed with office workers, civil service exam students, convenience store night-shift part-timers, and recent graduates. The cheapest housing in Korea is called a "banjiha" (semi-basement)—damp, dark, with the risk of backflow during the rainy season. Minji has already climbed from the semi-basement to above ground, living in a small studio costing about 600,000 won per month (approx. 3,000 RMB) with a 10 million won deposit (approx. 50,000 RMB). The room isn't big, but it has a window, light, and also the illusion that "at least I'm still moving up."

If nothing unexpected happened, Minji would endure a few years at the ad agency, with wages slowly rising; then marry an ordinary office worker, combine savings, parental support, and bank loans to move to an apartment on Seoul's outskirts or in a new town in Gyeonggi Province. It seems she finally moved from the provinces to Seoul, from a semi-basement to above ground, from renting to an apartment. But essentially, it's just paying rent to a landlord when young and paying interest to the bank when middle-aged. So-called stability is just anxiety given a more respectable name.

It was precisely when this path was narrowing that the stock market crashed into her life. It's dangerous, yet more like an exit than the life composed of salary and rent. When Subway Line 2 pulls into Sillim Station, she gets pushed onto the train. On the subway before, she'd first check KakaoTalk (Korea's "WeChat"); now, she opens the securities app first. When she first bought just two shares, she felt a bit embarrassed, as if mimicking others getting rich. But compared to losses, she was more afraid that years later, when people talked about this semiconductor bull market, she would again be like when she missed out on real estate, cryptocurrency, and the AI-driven U.S. stock rally by Nvidia, and could only say: "I didn't buy back then."

Compared to single white-collar workers with no dependents, family users are more cautious about stock trading.

Junho is the boyfriend of a senior sister I knew from school, age 33. They've been out of university for three years but still aren't married. He commutes from Incheon to Yeouido for work, with a decent salary. He has an Excel spreadsheet detailing his saved-up "jeonse" deposit (lump-sum deposit for rent-free housing), wedding budget, and parents' medical emergency funds. In Korea, an ordinary wedding—venue, banquet, wedding dress, makeup—easily costs close to 30 million won (approx. 150,000 RMB); add the jeonse deposit for a newlywed home, and marriage instantly becomes a ledger of hundreds of millions of won. Junho wants to get married, but the spreadsheet isn't finished. He used to believe that filling in the cells one by one, life would move forward. But after this bull market arrived, he felt for the first time that the spreadsheet was calculating too slowly. When he entered the market, stock prices were already high, so he just tested the waters with a small amount.

"Is it still too late?" is the "FOMO" emotion shrouding ordinary Koreans. Eunju, the receptionist at a skin clinic I often visit, quit her job after having a child. In her mom group chat, topics once centered on English academies and pediatricians, but recently turned entirely to stocks. Eunju is also tempted, but she first thinks of the family ledger. That money seems to be in the account, but it's already earmarked for the child, husband, and parents' lives. She hesitates to take the plunge.

Among all friends, Sookoo is the one most basking in glory in this bull market. As a veteran stock trader, he's the kind who long ago treated the stock market as a second life, watching financial news on the treadmill, opening the securities app after a workout. Since this semiconductor bull market arrived, he often semi-jokingly messages me: "Made 20 million won (approx. 90,000 RMB) across three accounts today, I'm treating for Korean beef tonight." Other times he says: "Lost a Ferrari today." It sounds exaggerated, but it's like a new language in this bull market: talking about losses as sports cars also means he's regained the right to speak.

His father's and sister's funds are entrusted to him for stock trading. This isn't just Sookoo's story. In Korea's current bull market, more and more young people aren't just using their own savings but also borrowing family funds to buy stocks, even directly borrowing from securities firms to enter the market. Korean media, citing Korea Financial Investment Association statistics, reported that the daily average "borrowed money for stock trading" had risen to about 33.8 trillion won by April this year, a monthly record high. By May 21, Korea's total borrowed money for stock buying had risen to 36 trillion won. What's rising is stock prices; what's being staked is ordinary people's credit and future, brought forward.

These frenziedly entering Korean retail investors are called "ants," with young investors called "youth ants." The term carries a subtle sense of fate. Ants are too small, can only crawl close to the ground, carrying bits of principal, judgment, and luck in the vast financial market. Yet "they" keep surging into this army. Not because they all believe they can beat the market, but because they know staying put is equally dangerous.

02 Bull Market Widening Korea's Wealth and Class Gap

No one admits at the outset that they bought stocks because they were afraid of being left behind by the times. They'll say they're just trying a little; they'll say everyone is watching Samsung and Hynix, and it'd be strange not to. But ultimately, what weighs on the heart often isn't greed, but a sense of absence.

This is how Minji started buying stocks. She doesn't understand financial reports, can't clearly explain semiconductor cycles, only knows HBM (High Bandwidth Memory) is hot, SK Hynix rises fast, and everyone in the group says "it's not too late." One evening, she met a college friend in Hongdae. The friend sat down and immediately opened the securities app to show her, saying the Hynix bought last year had already risen a lot. The friend said it lightly: "Just bought a little randomly, didn't expect it to rise like this." Minji also smiled and said, "That's great." On the way home that day, standing 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 that "just bought a little randomly." Some people's random is another person's too late.

In Korea's workplace, "salary poverty" is becoming a topic. "Lately, it's not people working, it's stocks working." "Labor income has become beggars in a bull market." Even without fantasies of overnight riches, ordinary people working step-by-step and saving money also seem "pitiful."

Junho felt the orderly life he was diligently building being challenged. He was still working hard at life but suddenly became poor. This "suddenly becoming poor" isn't someone actually going bankrupt, but the frame of reference changed. His girlfriend sometimes says: "You should also learn to invest. Others buy Hynix and earn a deposit in a few months." Before, Junho compared wages, positions, and tenure with others; now, he's forced to compare holdings, entry timing, and account gains.

Eunju, the housewife, hasn't truly entered the market, so she hasn't suffered actual losses, but she gradually feels a gap with others. Once, someone in the mom group said they made money from stocks and planned to move their child to a more expensive English academy. Her child is still at that ordinary cram school. The teacher is very responsible, corrects homework meticulously. But when the mom group mentions the teacher, they always add lightly: "The person is responsible, just their educational background is ordinary." In Korea's education market, whether a teacher is from SKY (acronym for Seoul National, Korea, and Yonsei Universities), has overseas experience, whether their accent sounds like a "native speaker," all become price tags in parents' eyes. And the bull market widens the gap between children who were originally at the same starting point.

The stock market is a metaphor for social circles. Sookoo understands better than anyone that stock trading in Korea isn't just about opening a securities app to place an order. It also involves joining groups, reading reports, maintaining relationships, treating meals, giving gifts, even learning at the dinner table to judge which words are real news and which are just someone wanting you to hold the bag.

Years ago, he was just a small presence in a Kakao finance group. The group was named "Market Study Room," sounding like an ordinary study group, but was actually more like a small-scale social club: former securities firm employees, asset managers, veteran stock traders, and a few people like himself wanting to climb up.

Every morning at 8:30, the group became active. Some posted U.S. market closes, some posted institutional reports, some screenshotted foreign investor movements. Those with accurate judgments, fast news, and still had capital had a voice. Those who continuously lost money, whose words were ignored, slowly disappeared, "got" removed from the group. Many such stock trading groups operate, filter, narrow in Korea, very much like the constant tightening of upward social circles.

Sookoo was taken under the wing of a "finance big brother" not by one accurate call, but by long-term relationship maintenance. He often visited seniors in different cities, booked restaurants, asked Chinese friends to bring Maotai liquor. When the market was good, dinner gatherings were like information exchanges; when the market was bad, they were like relationship lifelines. Before, when Sookoo's Mercedes-Benz parked in front of a Japanese restaurant, his Rolex peeking from his sleeve, and the finance big brother got into the passenger seat, he felt an illusion: he was finally seen by this circle. In such circles, money isn't just capital; it's also a voice. When an account still had weight, jokes were acknowledged, judgments were listened to; when the account lightened, the person lightened too.

The bull market created many stimulating stories: profit screenshots, resignations, sports car photos. People seemed to finally hold their heads high, loudly declaring they were severing ties with their previously humble, managed lives, from being "wage workers" to "people choosing their lives."

Some Koreans I know, after making money in the stock market, really quit their jobs, even some who turned in their civil servant ID cards. The basic salary for entry-level Korean civil servants is about 2.13 million won (approx. 10,000 RMB), even lower than the 2026 standard minimum monthly wage. The so-called "iron rice bowl," in the face of Seoul's rent, living costs, and class anxiety, is often just a bowl that won't break but also can't be filled with rice. So a sudden sum of money in an account wasn't just profit for them, but a ticket to escape their original track. Some became full-time stock traders; some took their stock market earnings to Vietnam, starting a different life anew.

03 Class Illusion Revealed by the Bull Market: Opportunity Isn't Equal for All

If you only look at accounts, the Korean bull market looks like an opportunity; if you look at the lives behind the accounts, it's more like a stress test. Stocks start to examine each person's life in reverse: salary, debt, children, parents, house, and marriage are all laid back on the table.

In 2022, after Korea's previous metaverse rally collapsed, Sookoo also sold his Mercedes to repay loans. The day he sold the car, he washed it very clean, even patted the floor mats a few times. After the transaction, he took the subway home alone. That day, he realized for the first time that asset decline isn't an abstract term. It becomes concrete to no longer being able to drive to meet friends, no longer being able to casually treat meals.

But even at his most destitute, he didn't sell that Rolex. He locked it in a small safe, next to a few loan documents. "If I sold it, it would mean admitting that life of ascent never belonged to me."

Fortunately, in this bull market, Sookoo, backed by his family, made a comeback. His father helped handle some high-interest debt and gave him more money. With three family accounts combined, Sookoo regained the capital to re-enter the market and the confidence to sit back at the dinner table.

The stock market creates a "fantasy" of class ascension for ordinary people. A friend of a friend, Seongmin, works at an auto parts company near Ulsan; his wife is an elementary school teacher. He made some money in this rally. At first, when his wife saw the profit screenshot, she said: "In that case, let's take an overseas trip?" Seongmin immediately said: "No, haven't sold yet, and there's tax, plus we need to consider parents' insurance premiums."

In Korea, even when money is earned, it's hard for it to truly belong to oneself. For a 1 billion won (approx. 4.47 million RMB) apartment, upon purchase, you first pay nearly 30 million won (approx. 150,000 RMB) in acquisition tax; then annual property taxes, loan interest, maintenance fees. Parents' medical insurance, nursing insurance cost 400,000-500,000 won per month. So that profit seems to be in the account, but it's already pre-spent on the house, parents, and future children. The only indulgence Seongmin dared was upgrading his 10,000 won (approx. 45 RMB) soup-and-rice lunch to 12,000 won (approx. 54 RMB).

Their imagination of when they can finally have a child is also constantly being upgraded. Initially, they just wanted to save enough for a decent jeonse rental (a Korean housing system between buying and renting, using a large lump-sum deposit for a period of "free occupancy"; in Seoul, a small jeonse deposit is about 100-300 million won, approx. 450,000-1.34 million RMB, while ordinary apartments often start at 600 million won, approx. 2.68 million RMB). Later, it became moving to a good neighborhood (dong) or a large-brand apartment. Later still, the child should attend a good kindergarten, English academy, ideally entering the elite educational track all the way, even studying abroad.

In Korea, a child's starting point isn't the delivery room, but which dong, which apartment the parents live in. Where a child lives often determines from what age they are sent into which track.

The semiconductor bull market also illuminates a finer hierarchy of status.

Taehoon is a student I tutor in Chinese. He works in equipment maintenance at a semiconductor cooperative company (up/downstream partner) for Hynix in Cheongju but isn't a formal SK Hynix employee. That dark work uniform, which used to just get dusty daily, recently gained another value. On Korean secondhand platforms, SK Hynix jackets are labeled "best blind date attire."

Taehoon also participated in a blind date arranged by his parents. The other party, hearing he was at a semiconductor-related company, quickly asked: "Is it at Hynix?" He paused and said: "It's a cooperative company, not a direct employee." The other party smiled and said: "But the semiconductor industry is good now, right?" It seems Korea's semiconductor bull market illuminated the entire industry, but the dividends aren't evenly distributed. Some are at the chaebol center, some at cooperative companies; some get huge performance bonuses, some just work more overtime; some see their company logo appreciate in the marriage market, some are just brushed by this frenzy.

This is also why many young Koreans are increasingly tense: normal upward mobility channels are narrowing, while asset markets are like doors not yet completely closed. Behind the door is dangerous, but more and more people are outside.

The most enticing part of a bull market is that it makes people think class can be rewritten by a single purchase. The most brutal part is that when the decline comes, it immediately makes class reappear.

On May 20, the Korean market began to fluctuate violently. The bull market that just days earlier felt like a festival suddenly showed another face. KOSPI fell only 0.86% on the surface, but all twenty-plus industry sectors fell, with declining stocks outnumbering advancing ones by about 9 to 1; foreign investors net sold about 2.95 trillion won in a single day. During the day, people could still say it was an adjustment, foreigners were shaking out the market; by late night, explanations gradually quieted down.

The evening of the stock market turmoil, Sookoo had dinner with a finance big brother at a Japanese restaurant in Gangnam. Before meeting such people, he would arrive in his Mercedes, Rolex showing from his sleeve. Later, after selling the Mercedes, he drove a second-hand Kia. Old steering wheel, worn-out seats, paired with that watch, seemed inappropriate, so he didn't wear it that day.

The finance big brother arrived punctually. When the second glass of wine was poured, the other asked him: "What's your take on semiconductors lately?" Sookoo picked up a small piece of sashimi; his chopsticks paused mid-air. Before, he would immediately respond, as if afraid of being forgotten by this table half a second late. But this time, he wasn't in a hurry. He dipped the sashimi in wasabi soy sauce, ate it, then put down his chopsticks.

After having money in his account again, even his silence became different.

He looked up and said: "Hyung, this time I only plan to buy in batches. Acting recklessly again would be fatal." At the end of the dinner, the finance big brother patted his shoulder and said: "Sookoo-ya, you seem to have improved this time."

Those truly hit are the ones who staked everything and can never recover. Sookoo's friend Donghyuk is one. He used to be a marketing director at a large company, living with his wife in a Gangnam apartment, driving an imported car, buying Korean beef at the supermarket on weekends. Back then, he also spoke in Kakao finance groups; people called him "Donghyuk-hyung." This "hyung" is common in Korea but carries weight. It means experience, money, judgment, and that others were willing to listen to him.

When the metaverse heated up, he believed he caught the next generation of the internet. At first, he only bought small amounts, then more and more. Each loss made him want to prove his initial judgment wasn't wrong. He used credit loans and stock collateral loans. His wife warned him: "Isn't it too risky?" He said: "Missing this cycle, I'll regret it for life."

Later, he really regretted it. The day he sold the Gangnam apartment, the agent, contract, bank, repayment—everything pushed forward like a procedure. His wife stood in the emptied living room, looking at hooks still stuck on the wall, and asked him: "How did we get to this point?" He couldn't answer. Finally, his wife said: "What's more unbearable than you losing money is you refusing to face reality."

Years later now, another bull market arrived. The person who once explained market trends at dinner tables can only deliver takeout to those offices discussing trends. In the original stock trading group, someone half-jokingly calls him "delivery hyung." The "hyung" remains, but the respect has been hollowed out.

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

Sometimes I also see myself in such contrasts. I ride the same subway, eat similarly priced soup and rice, and also looked at the red and blue flashing numbers in the securities app on similar nights. My anxiety just takes a different shape. It's not a mortgage or debt, but another kind of uncertainty: Where should I stay? Where is my future?

Sometimes Korean friends ask me: Isn't it also very competitive over there? Speaking of China, they sometimes show a bit of envy, saying your market is big, there are still opportunities; sometimes add: "But you also work very hard, right?" Perhaps they just want to confirm whether their exhaustion is an isolated failure or a common situation this generation has reached.

It's also hard for me to separate myself because Chinese youth also break down their lives into individual beads: job, rent, parents, marriage, buying a home, children. Each bead alone doesn't seem too heavy, but once placed on that transparent template, you realize the pattern was predetermined. You think you're slowly piecing together a life, but you're just carefully not misplacing any bead.

I increasingly feel that Korean youth's "lying flat" is never about lacking desire. On the contrary, it's that their desires have been disciplined to be too quiet. It no longer appears as bold declarations but is shrunk into bills. The bull market is glaring because it briefly makes people forget this spreadsheet. It's direct, rough, tempting. Buy today, rise tomorrow, the account immediately tells you: Have you been seen by the times?

But behind this spreadsheet is actually a body that has endured too long. The suddenly restored heartbeat makes the line on the screen jump. But that jump isn't recovery. When the market quiets down, Korean youth still have to return to their original lives, continue facing that medical record.

That medical record doesn't just bear one person's name. In 2025, Korea's household net worth Gini coefficient rose to 0.625, with the top 10% richest households holding nearly half the national net worth; non-regular workers' wages were only about 65% of regular workers'. Korean society isn't moving forward together; rather, some move further away via assets, while others' labor income is pre-divided into grades. The poor feel they can't get in, the middle class fear falling. The ceiling formed by chaebols remains rock-solid.

Later I understood: the bull market replaces Koreans' weather not because people no longer care about rain. Rain falls on everyone, but the bull market doesn't.

Subway Line 2 arrives at the station as usual. Some look up at the weather; some look down at Samsung and Hynix. The doors open, then close. Some squeeze in; some are left outside.

(All names in the article are pseudonyms)