
From the Weibo account of the late Chinese star Alan Yu's official studio.
On September 10 in the United States (the 11th in China), two prominent men of similar age met violent deaths almost simultaneously: Charlie Kirk, the 31-year-old American conservative activist, and Alan Yu (also Yu Menglong, 于朦胧), a 37-year-old Chinese television star.
At first glance, the two appear to share nothing in common. Yet beyond the uncanny timing and age proximity, another parallel emerges: each man's death has provoked an immense and unexpected social reaction. Many commentators already call Kirk's killing a turning point in US history. What, then, does Alan Yu's death signify for China?
A Meteoric Rise: Alan Yu's Path to Stardom
Born on June 15, 1988, Alan Yu first gained national attention at 19 through a televised talent show. He released music albums and starred in numerous television dramas, becoming one of China's most bankable young actors with nearly 30 million social-media followers.
Back in 2023, reports noted that his 58-episode fantasy epic Eternal Love (Three Lives, Three Worlds, Ten Miles of Peach Blossoms) had amassed a staggering 52.2 billion online streams, setting a record in Chinese television history. Since then, the figure has climbed past 60 billion.
Though not the male lead, Yu played the heroine's brother — the drama's "First Handsome Man Under Heaven." As the series rocketed to fame, so did his image as a gentle, unblemished heart-throb.
A Death Too Unlikely
On September 11, news suddenly broke online: Alan Yu had fallen to his death. The official statement, delivered with remarkable speed, classified the event as an "accidental fall after drinking" and dismissed criminal suspicion within 24 hours.
But many Chinese found this implausible. The actor died in his own apartment. The windowsills there were unusually high, the windows opened inward, and screens were in place — hardly the kind of environment in which a drunken stumble would send someone falling out.
Almost immediately, competing but overlapping rumors proliferated online: Yu had been forced to drink at a party, sexually assaulted — some said by multiple attackers — and thrown from a window after resisting. Alleged videos of his screams and of the fall circulated widely.
Then came a list of 17 alleged party attendees. One was rumored to be the illegitimate son of Cai Qi — Xi Jinping's powerful confidant and de facto "number two" within the CCP. Side-by-side photo comparisons fueled speculation.
Others claimed Yu held a USB drive exposing elite money laundering and overseas transfers through the entertainment industry. According to this version, he was killed for refusing to hand it over.
More sensational claims even linked him to Yang Lanlan, rumored to be Xi Jinping's secret daughter, who had stirred controversy online for her lavish lifestyle following a high-profile car accident in Sydney.
None of these claims can be confirmed or disproven. Official action has been to impose strict information blackouts, even censoring Yu's name.

Defying the Censorship Playbook
Normally, such blanket censorship cools a story within days. No matter how famous the celebrity, public attention fades, and the next trending topic arrives. Many assumed the same would happen here. But they were wrong.
Instead, more and more citizens — including veteran China watchers — joined an improvised investigation. They discovered that in a notoriously decadent industry, Alan Yu was almost anomalously clean. Raised by a single mother from an ordinary background, he lived frugally despite early fame, wore inexpensive clothes, and donated hundreds of thousands of yuan to disaster relief.
In an era when some actors trade sexual favors for roles, Yu famously refused a wealthy woman's offer to "keep" him. He endured three years of blacklisting, and repeatedly declared he would never take his own life — urging fans to live on.
This image of integrity stirred deep emotion. People asked: if even a top-tier, scandal-free star can be erased without cause, what hope remains for ordinary citizens?
Codes and Cracks: Online Subversion
Netizens began speaking in code to keep the issue alive. On China Central Television's livestream inviting viewers to "enjoy Beijing's autumn," thousands posted dark jokes: "Will we come back alive?" "Free fall?" "Go there, get pushed down?" "Go and end up in a cremation urn?" Everyone knew they were referring to Yu without naming him.
Ten days later, authorities announced the arrest of three people for "spreading rumors" about Yu's death. Far from calming the storm, it intensified it. The government had not answered a single substantive question, but was jailing those who asked. VPN downloads spiked, and overseas Chinese language media subscriptions jumped 20%. Posts related to Yu have now accumulated more than 20 billion views.
Commentators argue the regime underestimated the impact. What began as a celebrity tragedy has become a crisis of public trust — a flashpoint for pent-up resentment. Citizens "storm the tower" by mass-commenting on official livestreams, swamping police hotlines, and inventing ever-new euphemisms to dodge filters and exchange survival tactics.
A Digital Insurgency of Conscience
One viral post framed the moment as proof of collective power: "Our persistence forced them to issue a clumsy notice. They are panicking. Their days of covering the sky with one hand are over. We are united for justice and kindness — our strength only grows. They are united only by self-interest and will fracture when threatened. We must believe in victory."
Below it unfolded long discussions of how to keep speaking out, sustain public attention, and stay safe. The tenacity surprised many China watchers. Perhaps, as Chinese people say, "the Mandate of Heaven has shifted."
Data, Despair, and the Five Questions
For two years, as China's economy sagged, a Chinese macro-analyst (with 312,000 followers on X) voiced bleak predictions: to preserve elite privilege, the Party would impose a North Korea-style "Great Suppression," sacrificing half the population if necessary. To gauge public psychology, he designed five stark surveys.
Question One imagined a state registry for "Five-Losers" (those who failed in investment, life, mental balance, relationships, or sanity), flagged across payments, transport, exams, and secretly monitored. Asked how they would respond, 18.5% said "indifferent," 7.6% "strongly support," 57.1% "quietly sympathize," and 16.8% "stand up and resist at any cost."
Question Two posited draconian restrictions for those on the state registry: no train or air tickets, no exams, no business licenses, children treated as criminals' offspring, and accounts frozen. Asked how they would respond, 12.6% said "endure until starvation," 6.2% "flee to the wilderness," 16.4% "rise and sacrifice," and 64.7% "organize collective resistance."
Betrayal, Terror, and the Collapse of Alliances
Question Three added a twist: the government offers to restore normal status and welfare to any "Five-Losers" who denounce others. Asked if they would betray their allies, 21.5% of respondents said yes. Other responses were "trust comrades and keep resisting" (57.4%), "flee to die in the mountains" (5.3%), and "try to escape abroad and be shot at the border" (15.8%).
Question Four imagined a rebel alliance imposing a brutal internal code: kill any suspected informer, entire family included. It asked, "You are assigned to execute such a traitor — an impoverished man who only seeks medicine for his wife and a future for his children. If he informs, a hundred families will die. What would you do?"
Respondents' answers were "kill the whole family" (66.4% ), "kill the adults, spare the children" (12.6%), "cannot act — flee and starve" (10.7%), and "defect and report to the government" (10.3%).
Question Five posited that all rebel groups degenerate into terror and betrayal. Respondents said they would "wait to die" (6.9%), "join the rebels as terrorists" (30.7%), "become a lone-wolf saboteur" (48.5%), or "attempt escape abroad and be shot" (13.9%).
The Analyst's Grim Conclusion
Because survey respondents often overstate their courage and hide their fear, the analyst believes actual resisters would be even fewer. By his estimate, only 2.7–4% might dare to fight. Any group larger than five would face near-certain betrayal. To prevent betrayal through terror, the movement would turn into a pariah organization that no legitimate actor could support.
Thus, he concluded, China's only remaining path of resistance is lone-wolf action.
Months ago, reading his findings depressed me. In an age of perfected digital totalitarianism, rebellion seemed impossible.
'Man Proposes, Heaven Disposes'
Yet the public reaction to Charlie Kirk's and Alan Yu's deaths reminded me of an old Chinese proverb: "Man's plans cannot outwit Heaven's (人算不如天算)."
The analyst's five scenarios presuppose a dark view of human nature: self-interest above all, betrayal for survival, killing for advantage. In that design, the weak have only three suffocating options: await death, be sold out, or become terrorists.
But both the Kirk and Yu episodes reveal another possibility: confronting evil with goodness, saving others as a way to save oneself.

Communism's Shadow East and West
In a sense, Kirk and Yu are both victims of communism. After the Cold War, its menace did not vanish but mutated. In the West, it seeped softly into ideology, campuses, media, arts, law, even our families, governments, and NGOs. In China, it often appears in bloodier form.
Its objective is the same: the destruction of humane society. At times, it seems close to succeeding. Without divine intervention, it seems we could not stop it ourselves.
Yet lately, like the name of Charlie Kirk's group "Turning Point USA" suggests, the tide appears to be turning. This is at once divine action and human awakening. In China, the Party may strive to atomize society with high technology, making each person another's hell. But if enough people retain enough humanity and kindness, the evil plan cannot prevail.
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Author: Jennifer Zeng