On the day their child is born, parents skip praying or visiting temples and instead rush to open a securities account to trade stocks. This may sound like a fairy tale in many countries, but it is perfectly normal in South Korea today.

In 2026, the number of new accounts opened by minors under 18 in South Korea surged nearly tenfold. In a country with a population of just over 50 million, the total number of securities accounts exceeded 105 million, averaging two accounts per person.

Even President Lee Jae-myung got involved, selling his old house, sharing screenshots of his stock purchases, and publicly committing to monthly fixed investments.

From babies' lucky money to the elderly's pensions, and even the president's house sale proceeds, the entire nation of South Korea seemed to be flocking to one place—the stock market.

And the South Korean stock market delivered. Since 2026, the KOSPI 200 index has soared from 600 points to 1,400 points, surging over 100%, making it the only major global index to double.

Data from Shinhan Investment Securities shows that in the first quarter of this year alone, over 80% of South Korean retail investors turned a profit, with an average gain of approximately 38,000 yuan per person.

Behind this nationwide celebration lies an extremely distorted scorecard: while the index doubled, over 80% of individual stocks actually declined. The entire South Korean stock market was propped up by just two companies: Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix.

In essence, South Koreans have staked almost everything on two AI chip stocks.

A repeatedly overlooked pattern in investment history is that when everyone starts believing the same story, that story is nearing its end.

How crazy has the South Korean stock market become? A look at the data tells all.

As of June 15, 2026, the KOSPI 200 had surged 124.47%, making it the only index worldwide to double this year.

Despite the index's sharp rise, most stocks fell.

Data from the Korea Exchange shows that among the 800+ stocks on the KOSPI main board, the number of rising stocks plummeted from an average of 647 daily last year to just 140 in June.

This means 82% of stocks were in a stealth bear market despite the bull run.

The core force propping up this house of cards came almost entirely from Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix. These two giants not only accounted for 54% of the KOSPI index's weight but also dominated nearly half of the average daily trading volume, contributing nearly 70% of the index's gains.

This is less a bull market for the South Korean stock market and more a one-man show by two AI chip stocks. This isn't stock trading—it's the entire nation making offerings to Samsung and Hynix.

If capital merely flowed toward market leaders amid the global AI boom, it would hardly be surprising. What truly turned the South Korean stock market into a live volcano was its alarming funding structure: exploding leverage and near-insane derivative gambling.

As of mid-May 2026, the margin balance in the South Korean stock market swelled to a record 36.47 trillion won, double that of the same period in 2025.

Margin trading's share jumped from 18% to 35%. In 2020, total leveraged stock purchases in South Korea were under 6 trillion won. In just five years, the scale of borrowing to trade stocks has expanded more than sixfold.

The derivatives market is even more staggering. The KOSPI 200-based index options market is not only the world's largest by trading volume and highest by turnover rate but also sees retail traders account for 60-70% of transactions.

South Korea's KOSPI options implied volatility (market expectations of future price swings) once soared to 72%. For comparison, China's CSI 300 hovers around 25%, and the S&P 500 around 16%. Options, complex financial instruments, have become pure lottery tickets in the hands of South Korean retail traders, with stock price gains determining the jackpot.

Now consider the participants in this gamble—the breadth is chilling.

In this nation of over 50 million, 105 million securities accounts mean nearly two per person. In the first quarter of 2026, new accounts opened by minors under 18 surged nearly tenfold year-on-year.

This stems from a peculiar South Korean tax law: minors receive a 20 million won tax-free gift allowance every 10 years, with subsequent stock market gains entirely tax-exempt.

Thus, South Korean parents, at the moment their child is born, eagerly convert lucky money and gifts into high-risk semiconductor stocks and leveraged ETFs.

From the president to infants, the entire nation seems gripped by a collective hysteria.

Retail investors have gone mad, but this isn't just about them.

If retail frenzy is the kindling, the combined efforts of the government, capital, and chaebols have poured the hottest oil on this AI chip gamble, setting up Asia's craziest poker table.

To understand this table, one must first grasp why South Korea can only bet on Samsung and Hynix.

Because across the entire AI supply chain, South Korea possesses few globally competitive assets.

First, AI hardware. Over the past two years, South Korean media has repeatedly touted the local “AI chip trio.”

Rebellions focuses on AI inference chips, raising ~$850 million with a ~$2 billion valuation; FuriosaAI specializes in low-power AI accelerators, valued at ~$770 million; DeepX targets edge AI chips, nearing a $1 billion valuation.

These companies are stars in South Korea. But in today's AI landscape, where unicorns routinely hit $10 billion valuations, they pale in comparison.

The software sector faces even harsher realities. South Korea's market, capped at 50 million people, inherently limits startup growth.

Naver (~$18.7 billion), Kakao (~$12 billion), and Coupang (~$25 billion) represent South Korea's highest achievements in the past two decades of internet waves. Yet, by Chinese or U.S. standards, they are second- or even third-tier players.

In other words, South Korea hasn't produced a new Samsung in 20 years, and the odds of a superstar emerging in the AI era are low.

For South Korea, the best AI-era strategy is clear: go all-in on the companies most likely to win.

Do everything possible to ensure Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix maintain their dominant, highly profitable positions in the global AI supply chain.

But why does South Korea rush headlong into every new “casino”?

To understand today's stock market frenzy, one must confront a harsh truth: it's not that this generation of South Koreans is particularly mad—society has become a real-life “Squid Game.”

Rather than jogging slowly toward death in despair, why not bet everything on the wind? Go all-in.

In South Korea, every age group faces its own abyss.

Young people spend over a decade and astronomical tutoring fees to enter SKY universities (Seoul National, Korea, Yonsei), only to face unemployment upon graduation.

Even if they luck into the top 10 chaebols (which employ less than 10% of the workforce), they face constant performance reviews and layoffs.

In May 2026, South Korea's youth employment rate (ages 15–29) was just 43.8%, leaving over half idle.

Middle-aged South Koreans bear the heaviest burdens. They are the primary force behind leveraged stock trading. The average bank loan balance for people in their 40s hit a record 114.67 million won.

In May 2026, monthly growth in bank credit loans was over 100 times that of mortgage loans. The Bank of Korea bluntly stated: personal stock investments are the core driver of this lending surge.

A middle-aged person who climbs to middle management after decades of hard work faces a crisis if forced out before age 55 due to salary caps—mortgage defaults and social decline loom.

The elderly fare no better. South Korea's elderly poverty rate is 40.4%, with nearly one in two seniors struggling below the poverty line. The country's extremely weak social safety net (public welfare spending at just 15.2% of GDP) offers little support.

Extreme survival anxiety fuels a desperate, all-or-nothing mentality.

But this alone doesn't explain nationwide madness.

What truly etched gambling into the national DNA is South Korea's unique historical memory and cultural soil.

From the 1960s to 1990s, South Korea compressed a century of Western industrialization into 30 years, creating the Miracle on the Han River.

This hyper-compressed history not only fueled economic growth but also implanted a collective obsession with rapid success.

When hard work no longer provides a path to prosperity, a twisted consensus spreads: steady salaries will never change your fate. Only by betting on a once-in-a-generation windfall can you climb the social ladder.

If effort mattered, why rely on luck?

From real estate to lotteries to cryptocurrencies, South Koreans never stop gambling.

In 1990, Seoul housing prices surged 34% in a year, then crashed 45% over a decade. From 2017–2021, they soared again amid low rates, only to retreat nearly 30%.

In 2021, South Korea's daily cryptocurrency trading volume briefly topped $20 billion, even creating the globally infamous “kimchi premium.”

Now, it's AI chip stocks' turn.

This is classic FOMO (fear of missing out). Amplified by mobile internet, when people are bombarded daily with news that the president bought stocks, a neighbor's aunt doubled her money on leverage, and the KOSPI doubled in a year, rational fundamental analysis goes out the window.

The only thought left: if I don't jump in now, my life is over.

Desperate survival, historical path dependency, and social media-amplified FOMO have forged South Korea into a nation of gamblers.

When society's values reduce to “win big or work till you drop,” everyone clutches their chips tightly and plunges into the abyss with the tide of the times.

On June 8, 2026, the South Korean KOSPI 200 index plummeted 8.5% in a single day, triggering a circuit breaker and retreating ~15% from its peak. Samsung Electronics and SK Hynix fell over 10% and 7%, respectively.

This marked the 9th circuit breaker in South Korean stock market history and the 3rd in 2026 (trading halted for 20 minutes).

No one knows when the party will end, but more and more people realize it cannot last forever.