Last September, Gao Yi decided to delete his account on Telegram following a latest edition of Operation Qinglang — a Chinese government initiative launched in summer 2024 to clean up cyberspace for minors, with doxxing behavior highlighted. Known as “Dragon King” in China’s underground doxxing community, Gao was one of the few technical experts managing a database and lookup services that earned him prestige among the doxxing community.

He wasn’t alone. Many prominent figures in the community also deactivated their accounts as the crackdown intensified. Gao’s channel was shut down, and upon turning 18, he voluntarily withdrew from the community out of fear of legal consequences.

In May, China’s cyberspace regulator escalated efforts with a nationwide crackdown on “doxxing” — the practice of trading personal details and deliberately leaking private information online — after discovering widespread teenage involvement. Many participants are victims of school bullying, failed relationships, or petty online disputes.

Perpetrators often access personal data from online platforms, track IP addresses, or simply collate information from endless searches on social media platforms, to assemble a complete profile of their intended victim. Later, they find satisfaction in delivering what they see as “digital justice” by exposing their targets’ personal and family identities.

Using China’s messaging platforms like QQ as advertising venues, Telegram — the encrypted platform officially unavailable on China’s mainland — has become the preferred hub for doxxing activities due to its anonymity features.

From victim to perpetrator

Gao’s journey into doxxing began with his own experiences as a victim. Throughout his teenage years, he was a shy boy subjected to bullying at school. Academically gifted, he was often praised by teachers — a dynamic his primary school classmates interpreted as favoritism, leading to his social exclusion. In middle school, bullies would snatch his water bottle and throw it around the playground like a game.

He frequently cried on his way home and felt ignored by his family. He had only one close friend with whom he spent breaks together and hung out after school. Their most daring adventure was visits to the pool hall. Both were introverts in class who yearned for attention and wished someone would reach out to them.

As Gao’s obsession with playing pool grew, his grades dropped to average in eighth grade. No longer seen as a bright student, his self-esteem plummeted. During this vulnerable period, a girl seated nearby showed him kindness, sparking an unrequited crush that lasted throughout high school. When he finally confessed his feelings, she rejected and blocked him, leaving him feeling that nothing could restore his confidence.

When advertisements for “doxxing services” began circulating in his QQ group chats, Gao saw an opportunity to finally showcase his technical skills and gain the recognition he craved. He began immersing himself in the online doxxing world.

His new hobby soon proved useful in unexpected ways. One day, while serving as classroom monitor, Gao was taunted by classmates for trying to discipline them. One student mockingly challenged him: “Go ahead! Dox me if you dare!” Gao retaliated by sending a screenshot of the student’s digital social insurance card, revealing sensitive personal information. The incident resulted in his suspension for a week.

New to doxxing at the time, Gao occasionally advertised his services on WeChat, China’s dominant messaging app, partly for extra income but primarily to showcase his skills. Desperate to make friends, he used his earnings to treat other boys in his class to meals and karaoke sessions, even forcing himself to play basketball despite having no interest in the sport.

For the first time, Gao felt surrounded by “friends.” They would pick him up on their electric bikes, serve him food at meals, and seek his opinions on group activities. But when his doxxing business dwindled and he could no longer afford to treat them, these friendships vanished. The breaking point came when he wasn’t invited to one friend’s birthday party — he was the only one excluded from their circle. Feeling betrayed, he left their group chat and became more deeply involved in the doxxing community.

Gao transitioned from frontline sales to core technical operations, coding databases for information lookup services. His “boss” was an experienced programmer in his twenties who had been involved in doxxing for years. Together, they developed and operated a Telegram channel that amassed 50,000 subscribers in just three months. With his programming talent, Gao became a rising star in the doxxing community, earning recognition as the “Dragon King” — a title that brought him the fame and admiration he had always craved.

The loneliness epidemic

Offline, Gao’s life remained hollow: his father, a migrant worker, returned home only twice a year, and his mother, busy with factory work, seldom noticed his emotional struggles. His sister, 12 years older, remained emotionally distant, limiting their interactions to small talk during her weekly visits. Gao often lay awake at night, consumed by loneliness.

Yet online, when he mentioned lacking funds for servers and database building, followers eagerly offered financial help. When he shared his feelings, thousands read and related to his experience, offering comfort through their own similar stories of loneliness and rejection.

Looking back on his doxxing days, Gao reflects, “It was all about vanity, the feeling of being famous.”

Loneliness emerges as a common thread linking struggling teenagers who seek attention and validation online — yet the more they engage in these communities, the more withdrawn they often become from real-life relationships.

Guo Zitian, 15, understood this dynamic all too well. He once met someone who claimed they weren’t afraid of being doxxed because they “had already cut ties” with their family.

A middle school dropout, Guo joined the doxxing community last year after finding himself friendless and directionless. The internet became his playground, and doxxing was his weapon. He lived by one simple rule: “Whoever insults me gets exposed.”

To advertise his service, Guo would post on social media platforms images of his victims’ handwritten apology letters — public displays of surrender to the doxxer’s power. Within a year, he had gained enough respect for his doxxing skills to take on more than 50 apprentices, who would send him gift money as tokens of respect, just as he had done with his own mentor. In one social media video, he boldly declared himself a “god.”

Online, Guo accumulated thousands of “friends.” His closest ones would game with him, gift him music app memberships, and share childhood photos. However, they rarely exchanged personal contact information, and everyone kept their real identities closely guarded during offline gatherings — a telling sign of the shallow nature of these digital relationships.

Guo even experienced a brief online romance, though it ended abruptly when his girlfriend’s QQ account simply disappeared one day. He merely shrugged off the loss, thinking, “There’s no point trusting people online.”

Legal gray areas

Both doxxers and their victims are getting younger, according to Chen Weijie, a lawyer at Hui Ye Law Firm, one of China’s leading practices, who has handled nearly 100 online privacy violation cases. Regulatory gaps in China’s legal system have further emboldened teenagers to participate in doxxing activities.

Chen notes that conflicts often originate in fan groups, anime communities, and gaming circles. However, only a small fraction of cases ever reach a final judgment. In China’s legal system, it remains unclear whether such cases fall under civil or administrative jurisdiction. Civil actions can only be filed after obtaining the perpetrator’s personal information — a significant hurdle, as most doxxers register accounts under their parents’ phone numbers. When authorities track them down, they are often under 16 and therefore not criminally liable under Chinese law.

Even when convicted, Chen says most offenders merely offer apologies while claiming they can’t afford to pay compensation. Through his clients, he learned that the doxxing community circulates detailed guides on handling lawsuits, which makes underage doxxers even more brazen in their activities.

The untouchable underground

Facing little or no legal consequences, young doxxers have escalated their attacks. Before Operation Qinglang, famous doxxers and influential bloggers were revered as symbols of power within the community.

Chuan Lie, a gaming content creator, became one of their prominent victims. His troubles began when he stumbled upon a gaming account password-stealing scam and made a warning video about it. Private messages exposing various similar schemes soon flooded his inbox, including numerous doxxing incidents. His series of anti-fraud educational content attracted 5.3 million followers across platforms, stoking resentment among and against the fraudsters.

In 2022, he was doxxed for the first time, with his private information repeatedly leaked online. The worst incident involved public exposure of his entire family’s ID numbers, official photos, personal pictures, and home addresses, garnering hundreds of thousands of views. Attackers even used his personal information to file false reports against him.

Last year, his family’s information appeared in a Telegram chat group, with his sister’s photos tagged with degrading insults. The family received endless harassing calls, even reaching his sister’s parents-in-law.

When one of Chuan Lie’s doxxers was eventually identified, the perpetrator turned out to be just 13 years old. When confronted about his actions, he showed no fear, dismissively saying, “I’m just a minor anyway” — highlighting how these young offenders understand their legal immunity.

The triggers for doxxing attacks have become increasingly trivial: losing a video game match, experiencing a romantic breakup, criticizing someone’s favorite celebrity, or even posting what someone considers an “annoying” meme. Chuan Lie observed that only a few doxxers are motivated by financial gain, while most do it for “fun” and “revenge,” relishing the feeling of having power over others.

During that period, many influential content creators and internet celebrities were systematically doxxed, with their information compiled into detailed “personal wikis” to attract data buyers. Chuan Lie later learned from the 13-year-old doxxer that there was no personal grudge involved. The attack was merely to demonstrate technical skills and gain attention online.

The young doxxer’s confession that he had dropped out of school didn’t surprise Chuan Lie at all. Over the years of receiving numerous help requests from doxxing victims and taunts from perpetrators, he had noticed a disturbing pattern: many doxxers failed to complete China’s mandatory nine-year education, often due to having migrant worker parents who were absent for long periods while working in distant cities.

Feeling dissatisfied or lost in life, these disconnected teenagers turned to doxxing and discovered an intoxicating sense of power: “I’m suddenly powerful online — I can dig up anyone’s secrets and make them cry.”

The founder of the Doxxing Victim Alliance, a support group for those targeted by such attacks, told The Beijing News in June that they had documented over 600 doxxing cases in the past three years. However, nearly all investigations stalled due to the inability to identify perpetrators.

According to People’s Court Daily, the buying and selling of personal data, as well as the deliberate leaking of private information online for purposes of defamation, constitute the crime of infringing upon citizens’ personal information. Under China’s Criminal Law, such offenses can carry a sentence of up to three years in prison. In a doxxing lawsuit cited by the Supreme People’s Court as an illustrative case this August, the perpetrators were sentenced to prison terms ranging from 11 months to one year for privacy infringement.

Paths to redemption

Last year, Gao — who had already planned to stop doxxing — helped track down Chuan Lie’s doxxer. However, since the perpetrator was under 16, he only received a warning with no further consequences. This experience opened Gao’s eyes to the community’s unchecked behavior and left him concerned about his own future.

After successfully entering university last year, Gao finally found fulfillment in his life, and no longer needed online attention to feel valued. However, leaving the doxxing community revealed how far he had drifted from reality — he found himself friendless and lonelier than ever. “Maybe for most who join this community,” he realized, “are rarely loved in real life, just like me.”

Meanwhile, 15-year-old Guo found it hard to continue his education and opted to join the workforce instead. He quit doxxing after becoming a victim himself in a dispute over a meme last year. His family’s information was exposed, and harassing messages and calls poured in. Strangers would curse at his father or falsely accuse Guo of online fraud.

Feeling genuinely threatened, he sought help from the police, who confiscated his phone for investigation. When friends offered to help him retaliate, he declined. To spare his family further harassment, he issued an apology letter and deleted his Telegram account — the same surrender ritual he had once imposed on his own victims.

Now working in a stressful kitchen, Guo has never recaptured that godlike feeling from his online days. “That is just reality,” he said, “and we are all ordinary people.” After leaving the community, he once encountered a newcomer calling themselves “god” just as he used to. Unable to resist, Guo left a message to offer perspective, but was only mocked as “bottom-tier trash.” He just smiled and didn’t reply.

(Due to privacy concerns, Gao Yi and Guo Zitian are pseudonyms.)

Reported by Wei Ronghuan and Liu Mengmeng.

A version of this article originally appeared in White Night Workshop. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Chen Yue; editors: Wang Juyi and Elise Mak.

(Header image: TPG/VCG)