We all know that nowadays, Xinjing, The Paper, and Caixin are dubbed the "Big Three Unreliable Sources." The Paper, in particular, specializes in spreading rumors and reporting on the world through a pessimistic lens.
The article "Is the Korean Wave Taking Over?!" is a prime example. It cited the trending charts, where eight out of the top ten spots were occupied by Korean celebrities.
According to The Paper's prediction, Su Yiwen's popularity was about the same as the main dancer of the eleventh-ranked girl group Seven-Colored Deer, and it wouldn't be long before he was overtaken.
As for Chu Zhi, the reason he temporarily held the seventh spot was due to the lingering hype from his new album 25117, released a month ago. Otherwise, he too would have fallen out of the top ten. Korean culture, just like during the early 2000s, was once again poised to dominate people's daily lives.
The article concluded with its signature dramatic flair:
[We have repeatedly discussed how Chinese culture struggles to spread globally. Now, we are witnessing yet another invasion of the Korean Wave, with our domestic entertainment industry powerless to resist. The level of support and investment in our cultural sector is deeply concerning.]
Marketing accounts jumped on the bandwagon, reposting the article until the situation escalated into full-blown panic—what started as "Korean Wave invasion" morphed into "Chinese culture getting crushed."
These bastards really know how to stir the pot.
South Korea invests heavily in its cultural industry. As early as the 2000s, they established a specialized agency called the Korean Creative Content Agency (KOCCA), which even has a branch in Beijing. Their "Cultural Powerhouse" policy has made K-dramas and idol groups key tools for cultural export.
Within just a month, the combination of Mango TV's lazy spending on Korean invites, DaHua Entertainment's management deals, and KOCCA's behind-the-scenes maneuvering had created a perfect storm.
The biggest impact of the boy band GZ and the K-drama Diamond was that they turned many girls who had never been into fandom into devoted fans.
Take Xiao Qi, the best friend of Little Fruit (Chu Zhi's fandom name) Xiao Zi. No matter how much Xiao Zi had tried to recruit her before, Xiao Qi had never fallen for any idol—until now, when she became a hardcore fan of GZ.
"I seriously don't get it. Even if you combined all of them, they still wouldn't be as handsome as Ninth Bro (Chu Zhi)," Xiao Zi grumbled.
"Mmm…" Xiao Qi didn't argue—after all, looks were subjective. But for her, fandom wasn't just about appearances.
"I love seeing a group of talented people chasing their dreams. Every oppa in GZ is amazing, conquering Asia and achieving incredible success," she explained.
From her answer, it was clear that Xiao Qi was a rare team stan—she loved the idea of a group of handsome guys working together toward a common goal. That said, given how often Korean boy bands disband or lose members, team stans were also the ones who got hurt the most.
"Okay, okay, fine. Even if you're into them, spending 5,000 yuan on a back-row concert ticket is insane!" Xiao Zi knew that amount was all the money Xiao Qi had saved from childhood red envelopes. Now, it was gone in one go.
"It's their first concert in China. No matter how expensive, I want to go," Xiao Qi said firmly.
"Uh—" Xiao Zi had only ever spent 1,000 yuan on fandom—and that was for a pair of designer sunglasses.
After GZ's 20-day sweep into China, DaHua Entertainment couldn't resist cashing in. On May 1st, they launched the "Love U" concert tour across three cities: Beijing's Workers' Stadium, Shanghai's Mercedes-Benz Arena, and Hangzhou's Yellow Dragon Stadium—all 50,000-seat venues.
(For context, concerts aren't always massive 80,000 or 100,000-person events. Anything over 8,000 is already considered large-scale, and most artists perform for crowds of 10,000–20,000.)
Xiao Qi had bought tickets for the Shanghai show. Front-row seats were being scalped for over 10,000 yuan, proving just how crazy the demand was.
The entertainment industry is just a small branch of culture, so it wasn't as apocalyptic as the marketing accounts made it seem. But domestic entertainment was taking a beating—five of the current "semi-top" idols had seen chunks of their fanbases defect. Little Fruits (Chu Zhi's fans) were an exception, thanks to their high loyalty.
Originally, Li Xingwei's decline had caused DaHua's stock to dip. But in the past half-month, their market value skyrocketed, recovering all losses.
The whole company was celebrating—except for Li Xingwei. With company resources now funneled to Korean stars, he had become an unwanted stepchild.
"Senior Li, you're still at the company today?" GZ's main vocalist, Jo Kwon, asked in awkward Chinese.
Kwon wore heavy eyeliner, had long hair tied into two buns (not on the sides, but stacked vertically on his head), and looked every bit the K-pop idol.
Looking at him, Li Xingwei felt the urge to punch him in the face. Suddenly, he realized just how much better Chu Zhi was in comparison.
At least Chu Zhi looked handsome, not effeminate. This Korean guy, though? Just straight-up girly.
"Senior has no schedule today? Must be nice. We don't even get breaks," Kwon added.
If the first sentence was polite small talk, the second was pure mockery. Li Xingwei could see the taunt in the guy's eyes.
"Know where you are. Watch your mouth," Li Xingwei snapped.
"Aigoo~ Why so angry, Senior? If you don't have schedules, just rest. Don't overwork yourself," Kwon said, grinning. The other members laughed along, whether they understood or not.
Li Xingwei wasn't completely schedule-less—he was at the company today to demand a new manager. But Kwon's sarcastic tone was infuriating. For a second, he considered throwing hands—but then he remembered it was five against one. His fists might get sore. Better to let it go today.
With a cold snort, Li Xingwei turned and left.
(In his mind: Chu Zhi, aren't you supposed to be amazing? Full of tricks? Why aren't you doing anything about these Koreans?!)
"Kwon, don't talk like that in public," the leader, Lee Joon-suk, warned.
Kwon grunted in acknowledgment. Initially, he had been cautious in China—back in Korea, he was used to being scolded by CEOs, directors, and managers. But the way Chinese agencies and TV stations treated them like royalty had gone to his head.
In Korea, Kwon would never dare talk to a senior like that—even if the senior was a nobody.
"Soo-hyun, how's your Chinese coming along?" Lee Joon-suk suddenly asked.
"Chinese is too hard, Hyung. I don't wanna learn," Lee Soo-hyun, the group's maknae (youngest member), whined in a cutesy tone.
"Soo-hyun, if you don't start talking normally, I'll shove your head in a urinal," Kwon threatened in Korean.
As the maknae, Soo-hyun was marketed as the "soft puppy" type, often acting cute on variety shows—something fans loved. But at Kwon's words, his face paled. He knew Kwon would do it.
"Stop scaring the kid," Lee Joon-suk said to Kwon before turning to Soo-hyun with a stern expression. "Chinese fans are easy money. Learn a few basic phrases, and endorsements will flood in. We're here to make cash. If you slow us down, you're spending a week in the reflection room."
"S-sorry! I'll study right away!" Soo-hyun stammered in fear.
The "reflection room" was no joke—it was basically a solitary confinement cell. A week in there would leave anyone mentally scarred.
GZ had come to DaHua to negotiate their cut. Under the current deal:
50% went to their Korean agency.
40% to DaHua.
10% to the five members.
They didn't dare challenge their parent company, so they pressured DaHua to give up more.
After half an hour of back-and-forth, DaHua caved—another 0.5%.
GZ wasn't just harvesting leeks, (a metaphor for easy money)—they were digging up the roots.
The Love U concerts had tickets priced from 588 yuan (cheapest outer ring) to 12,888 yuan (front-row VIP). Even mid-range seats went for 1,500 yuan, and every show sold out.
Estimated revenue per show: 75 million yuan. Cost to organize? 5 million max (usually just 1–2 million). YG Entertainment was raking it in.
Satisfied, the five members left DaHua—only to run into a reporter from Guangming Daily waiting outside. Since it was a mainstream outlet, leader Lee Joon-suk stepped forward for the interview.
"A high school girl threatened to jump off a building unless her parents bought her a ticket to your concert. What are your thoughts on this?" the reporter asked, pulling up a video.
The clip showed a 17-year-old girl screaming at her parents:
"Give me money! I have to see my oppas!"
"If you don't, I'll jump!"
At one point, she yelled: "GZ is Asia's top group! You wouldn't understand!"
Luckily, firefighters managed to grab her when she wasn't paying attention.
"Hmm… First, I want to thank the firefighters for their hard work," Lee Joon-suk said, barely hiding his disdain.
(Koreans' contempt for firefighters was well-documented. 60% of emergency calls in Korea were pranks, according to their own news reports. Drunk people often called just to harass them—sometimes even assaulting responders.
While Korean celebrities were known for high depression rates, firefighters had it worse—suicides outnumbered on-duty deaths 3 to 1, and over 60% in Seoul had psychological issues. A truly bizarre country.)
"But I think this was just a child's way of communicating with her parents. There's no need to blow it up into news. In the video, she was holding onto the window—clearly, she wasn't serious. Just trying to negotiate. Calling 119 and making it public only humiliates her further. Kids have pride too."
His words hit the reporter like a punch to the gut. The interview was supposed to get the idols to discourage such behavior.
Instead, this bastard had the audacity to defend it?