In 24 hours, He Jingjie would dance before thousands on China’s hottest new online stage. Tonight, she cried quietly over a makeup desk.

Her knee was bound in black cloth to hide medicated patches; her shoulder throbbed, and menstrual cramps knotted her stomach.

Around her, the rehearsal churned on: lights tested, fake rose petals fell from above, and managers barked over costumes. An account manager crouched beside her, murmuring a few words lost in the din.

“That day my stomach hurt and the pain in my knee and shoulder got worse,” the 30-year-old says. “I was terrified I might never dance again.”

The next day, she went live anyway on Douyin, China’s version of TikTok, where group livestreaming, or tuanbo, has become a nationwide obsession.

Across short-video platforms, dancers perform in rotating squads of five or seven as audiences send gifts, vote, and even pay to dictate moves. Algorithms track engagement, deciding in real time who stays in the spotlight and who fades.

The format has exploded in recent months, filling the gap left by China’s 2021 ban on idol survival shows. Regulators cited scandals ranging from vote-buying stunts — like fans buying, and then dumping, thousands of liters of milk for voting codes — to celebrity misconduct and toxic fan behavior.

In its early days, tuanbo thrived on shock value: teenagers in revealing outfits, splash punishments, slapstick stunts. Now it stretches from hotpot-eating troupes to tomboy dance crews mimicking boy bands, and costumed ensembles, each looping endlessly for the short-video feed.

For many, it offers a second chance at stardom. Top performers can land reality show slots, acting opportunities, or live concerts. Analysts forecast the sector will top 15 billion yuan ($2 billion) this year, with over 5,000 studios already vying for attention across China.

One of them is Taoqi Dao or Peach Island, a new tuanbo studio He joined. Its first team includes seven women chasing fame: a 20-year-old influencer with nearly 2 million followers, an entertainment host and model, an art teacher turned dancer, a dance teacher, an accountant, and a fresh grad.

After weeks of drills, they were finally ready for their debut livestream on Sept. 4 in the southwestern megacity of Chongqing. A one-hour test of choreography, chemistry, and endurance in a business that demands perfection in all three.

Countdown

Three months ago, none of this existed.

Peach Island was founded in July by two veterans of China’s idol scene: producer Duo Xiaomeng, who made the hit idol survival show “Chuang,” and Si Jie, a former manager at SM Entertainment, one of South Korea’s biggest talent agencies.

Their first hire, Zhang Letong, had produced variety shows at Chinese tech conglomerate Tencent for a decade. She brought along an assistant, also from Tencent, to handle the account and manage the group’s daily affairs. Now Zhang was testing whether that discipline could survive in a world without a script or safety net.

The rest came from Chongqing, one of China’s liveliest livestream hubs, long a supplier of talent to the short-video economy.

The night before Peach Island’s debut stream, Zhang stood behind a wall of monitors in a converted studio, watching seven dancers drill under white-hot lights.

“Switch to a side camera angle here,” 35-year-old Zhang calls out, barely glancing up from her monitor. She points out faults in short bursts: a chair too close to frame, a costume strap slipping, a camera cut coming a beat too late.

Around her, one camera stayed tight on faces, another swept wide across the floor. Upstairs, a coach waited to scatter petals over lead Lu Yingcheng, a dance blogger with 1.8 million Douyin followers whose solos anchored the choreography; of five debut routines, she led three.

At 20, Lu has already seen an idol’s rise and fall. Her street-style dances at university went viral two years ago, turning her into a minor celebrity. She dropped out to train with a Beijing girl group, only to quit a month later, convinced that the company managing them wouldn’t last.

Caught between anxiety over fleeting online traffic and an unfinished dream, she took a gamble after Duo, then directing an NBA cheerleader reality show, saw her performance and invited her to join Peach Island.

“I’ve always wanted to be an idol, but was born too late to catch the wave of TV talent shows,” Lu says. “But livestreaming gives me another way in. The screen’s just smaller now.”

A decade older, He Jingjie had missed her chance too.

Born into a family of teachers in the northern city of Tianjin, He taught herself dance in secret after her parents dismissed it as a “youth career.” She studied Chinese education to satisfy them, all while learning hip-hop on the side.

In university, she went to South Korea on exchange, “to keep dancing and break free from her parents’ control.” A 10-year idol contract followed, but once her parents found out, they made her return.

Back home, she taught briefly while posting dance clips online. The videos gained traction, letting her quit teaching and work full time as a performer in short dramas and ads. “The joy dance brings gives me strength,” she says. “It’s something words can’t describe.”

By August, Peach Island had invited her to join. She already had an offer from a short drama co-produced by lifestyle platform Xiaohongshu, or RedNote, and, along with Lu, had won a spot on the NBA’s Brooklyn Nets’ official dance team — a gig they continued alongside the livestream.

“I know this path is harder,” says He. “The performance and dance industry is very strict about age. Sometimes they don’t even look at my profile.”

With about 350,000 followers on Douyin, He now ranks second behind Lu. For both, the group livestream is a way to be seen again — and, with the company’s support, to finally cross into film and television.

Inside the studio, designers argued over shades of red as dancers stretched and practiced. Each costume had to stand out yet stay in sync. Hours before showtime, they were still sewing on the spot, adding gauze here, softening color there.

When the final run began, it lasted barely 20 minutes. Upstairs, managers huddled over screens, cutting transitions and trimming animations to keep rhythm tight. The dancers had only been together for weeks, but spent every day drilling formations, choreography, and expressions for the camera.

No one knew how the debut would go. Both Lu and He told their followers to tune in. “It feels more exciting than regular dancing,” He says. “I hope fans can see a different side of me.”

When rehearsal ended, the dancers trickled out one by one, leaving only a few veterans replaying footage and redrafting tomorrow’s plan.

That night, Cao Qin, another Peach Island performer who once worked as a model and host, dreamed she cried after the livestream — everyone but her had received gifts. Ye Mengna, just 18 and the youngest of the seven, dreamed she’d turned into Super Mario, leaping into the air to hit invisible blocks.

Spotlight

4:49 p.m. One minute to go. Lights glared; cameras hummed. No one moved.

Si Jie broke the silence with a roar, half shout, half release. The room snapped awake. “Come on!” someone yelled, then another.

A cue sounded, and the feed went live with “Love Emergency,” a hit by former idol Ju Jingyi. Lu led the formation as the lights flared. “Welcome to Peach Island!” the host called. “Today is our first broadcast. Make sure to follow us so you won’t get lost.”

Under the lights, the seven hit their marks, each step echoing weeks of rehearsal. One camera stayed tight on faces while a handheld drifted for motion. Lu took center, He half a step behind. For Lu’s solo, petals fell from the balcony.

Backstage, staff hunched over their phones, refreshing Douyin nonstop. As a new channel, Peach Island appeared only through random placements or shared links, so every click mattered.

At the control desk, Zhang and the founders watched numbers climb. One screen streamed the performance and comments; another tracked new entries, gifts, and likes in real time.

“Over a thousand!” someone quietly exclaimed. Twenty minutes in, the stream had already passed its goal. Then came another shout: “Douyin just pushed a new wave — switch back to ‘Love Emergency!’ ... Numbers are dropping!”

Numbers set the pace. Lu’s routines drew the most attention, so her song ran again. She met the camera’s gaze, caught a bouquet from a stagehand, tossed it aside, and launched into her solo. Off screen, a staffer darted in to retrieve the flowers, resetting for the next take.

“It’s like watching the stock market,” says co-founder Duo Xiaomeng. “With variety shows, you wait weeks for ratings. Here, the audience reacts in seconds.”

The repetition is deliberate, a tactic he picked up from other studios. “Users don’t all enter at the same time,” he says. “Running a song again lets new viewers catch its best moment.”

Back on stage, breaks lasted only seconds, just long enough for the others to slip out of frame while Lu danced her solo.

Half an hour in, sweat streaked down her face, hair clinging in strands. The crew lowered the air conditioning, but the heat kept rising. Enough that viewers began commenting, “Is there no air conditioning on Peach Island?”

6 p.m. The host finally called a pause, cueing cameras to spotlight each dancer for brief introductions. Two confetti cannons erupted, showering the stage in colored petals. The seven bowed and waved as the stream cut.

Applause erupted off-camera. “Awesome!” someone shouted. The counter showed more than 2,000 viewers — double the goal. “Honestly, I thought even 800 or 1,000 would’ve been great for the first day,” says Duo.

The seven finally exhaled. Sweat streaked their faces as they fanned themselves, half laughing, half dazed. During the set, they could only see themselves on the big screen: live comments and numbers stayed hidden to avoid distraction, an operator later explained.

“It was the first time we’d danced nonstop for a whole hour,” one dancer said later. “I couldn’t feel my legs.”

He Jingjie drained a bottle of water in one gulp; Lu dropped into a chair and didn’t move. With three hours before the next stream, most were too wired to rest. Some touched up their hair; others hovered near the stage.

Then Ye, Cao, and another performer, Li Xiangyun, 23, from Chongqing, turned on the mic and began to sing, their laughter echoing through the empty room. The noise drove the staff out, but for a moment, the stage was theirs alone.

9:30 p.m. The lights came back on. Same song, petals, and smiles.

The stream ran smoother this time, but competition was tougher. Gifts flashed across the screen — digital wings, sunglasses, glittering hearts — most landing on Lu and He.

The dancers tell Sixth Tone they didn’t feel sidelined by Lu’s spotlight. Early on, one face had to carry the stream, they said. And if viewers came for her, maybe they’d stay to notice the rest.

Still, when the petals fell again for Lu’s solo, He stood a step behind, eyes on the monitor. After the cut, she lingered to scoop a few from the floor, letting them fall again through her hands.

Minutes later, staff swept them into piles, sealed them in bags, and prepared them for the next day. A new batch arrived soon after, carefully spread and packed — reserved for Lu’s next big solo.

Encore

The night ended with applause. More than 3,000 viewers had watched, a 30% jump from the first one. So the team set a new target: 5,000.

But by noon the next day, He Jingjie was at the hospital, eyes half shut, clutching a takeaway box. Her shoulder throbbed, her knees ached, and the sleeping pill she’d taken the night before had left her groggy, with a dull headache and a hint of a cold.

The doctor prescribed more of the same: Band-Aids, acupuncture, and rest He wouldn’t take. She left with ointments and bandages and went straight back to the studio for afternoon practice.

In the car, she unzipped a makeup pouch the size of a lunchbox and got to work, one hand holding a mirror, the other moving quickly across her face. At every red light she drew eyeliner, curled her lashes, blended blush. “I got used to this in Korea,” she laughs. “Back then, I was always running between classes and rehearsals.”

By the time her makeup was done, she was already learning a new 10-second Douyin “shake” dance. She propped her phone on the seat strap and mimicked the catchy moves as traffic crawled.

Overnight, Zhang realized their content reserves were thin. “We panicked that first night,” she says. “We thought one set could last 10 days — but by morning, viewers were already asking for new material.”

Most of their audience was young women. “They have higher standards,” Zhang says. “They want something new every time they open the app.”

So the team rushed to build new choreography, short solo routines, and personal showcases — content that had originally been planned for two weeks later.

After a quick rehearsal, they went live again that afternoon. Some performers left their phones on the floor or chairs just out of frame, stealing glances at comments between songs.

When the petals fell again, the floor turned slick. Camera operators slid, dancers kicked petals aside mid-routine. Off-camera, He yawned, barely hiding her exhaustion.

By the end of the hour, Lu and He crouched by the wall, rubbing their backs. In the mirror, Lu’s expression had gone blank. “I didn’t expect this level of intensity,” she said. “No breaks, no breath — it drains everything.”

After each stream, Lu still had her own account to feed: sponsorship shoots, new clips, endless updates. “Before, my work was more flexible,” she says. “Now I feel like I’ve lost a lot of creative ideas because this work is so tiring.” Some fans even questioned her choice to join what they saw as a lower-tier scene.

Across the industry, performers either aim to become top streamers or break out as idols. Most earn modest bases — around 8,000 yuan — plus small cuts from viewer tips. And in many studios, streamers are also expected to charm “big spender” viewers in a ritual known as “writing homework.”

“Before, we streamed for six or seven hours a day,” recalls Li Xiangyun. “And the rest of the time, we were replying to messages, except when sleeping.”

Peach Island follows a different playbook. Like a traditional talent agency, it bans private chats with fans and manages all communication through a shared fan group. Replies are coordinated by staff, not streamers.

For Lu, that professionalism was part of the appeal. “Everyone has different impressions of group livestreaming,” she says. “Some people see it positively, some don’t. I accept both.”

Even so, she admits she’s not good at chasing numbers. “It’s not my strength,” she says. “But the veterans here know how to catch traffic when it comes.”

Zhang, the showrunner, says she’s still learning to read traffic. “It’s both concrete and abstract,” she says. “Sometimes it’s the lighting, the camera angle, or just how someone moves. You can’t explain it — you just watch closely.”

Co-founder Duo Xiaomeng sees that shift as part of a larger change. “Traditional variety shows aren’t sustainable,” he says. “Audiences don’t have time for polish anymore. Their attention is fragmented. Livestreaming is the natural evolution.”

That evolution, however, may no longer be human at all. Wu Fang, an associate professor at Shanghai Jiao Tong University, underscores that idol programs once followed institutions.

“Now, though the members’ fan base and the team’s professionalism still play a big role, algorithms largely decide which account succeeds,” says Wu. “There’s no formula; luck plays a big part.”

By the third day, viewership had dropped to 700, forcing a pause. One new outfit, paired with high heels, even triggered two bans in a night. Only after switching back to flats could the show resume.

At their best, Peach Island’s streams drew 7,000 viewers, a far cry from China’s top livestreams, which can surpass 100,000 concurrent viewers and rack up millions of likes.

Still, Zhang keeps the goal simple: give hardworking performers a stage and hope the algorithm notices. “Connection depends on timing and luck,” she says. Duo, however, is more blunt: “Only a few will ever become idols. The rest, I hope, can at least make plenty of money.”

And somewhere between luck and survival, that fragile hope flickers on — that one sudden surge of traffic will finally lift them into stardom.

That night after the livestream, He Jingjie rode home in silence. Outside, the city smeared into light until her taxi entered a long tunnel. “Every time I pass through, it feels like a time portal,” she said, smiling faintly. “I actually do want to go back — to 2018.”

That was the year she turned down a chance to train as an idol in Korea. “If I could go back, maybe I would’ve persisted … maybe the outcome would’ve been different.”

She pauses. “But we can’t romanticize the paths we didn’t take. The present is what matters. I chose this road. So no matter how hard it gets, I’ll climb it all the way through.”

Additional reporting: Lü Xiao; editor: Apurva.

(Header image: Confetti cannons erupt at the end of Peach Island’s debut livestream, Chongqing, September 2025. Lü Xiao/Sixth Tone)