In the latest case underscoring the persistent challenge of media corruption in China’s tightly controlled information environment, local district authorities in Shanghai reported this week that they had dismantled a “news extortion” (新闻敲诈) operation using a WeChat public account to blackmail companies for exorbitant “service fees” in order to make negative exposure disappear.

The case, authorities said, involved the exploitation of “supervision by public opinion” (舆论监督) — a concept that has typically been used officially in China to refer to the media’s power to expose malfeasance through reporting, with the proviso that this work does not directly criticize the Party. In this case, authorities allege, the WeChat public account in question exploited critical reporting to press companies into what were labelled “market promotion contracts.”

During the heyday of investigative reporting in China’s commercializing media in the early to mid 2000s, the phrase “supervision by public opinion” came to mean for some Chinese journalists something more akin to “watchdog journalism” in the West, with the idea of keeping power in check through reporting. Since 2012, Xi Jinping has moved to rein in these more professional and idealistic strains of “supervision,” emphasizing a more compliant and less oppositional approach in which “supervision by public opinion and positive propaganda are united” (舆论监督和正面宣传是统一的). Critical journalism has been radically restrained, even as the leadership has also stressed the need for internal supervision.

The Shanghai case follows patterns documented in previous alleged cases of news extortion across China.

On June 23, police in Qingpu announced the arrest of a suspect identified only as “Ding” (丁某), who operated a public account identified in official accounts as “X X Safety” (某某安全) — the name redacted, they said, for legal reasons. The account reportedly had 191,000 followers and daily views exceeding 8,000. After leaving his industry job in 2018, said an official release, Ding had leveraged his knowledge of the sector to establish the public account, which “initially focused on publishing industry-related company developments and analytical intelligence, accumulating a certain number of followers,” according to an official release.

Beginning in 2021, however, Ding was allegedly “no longer satisfied with objective reporting” (不再满足于客观报道), according to the police account. He deliberately sought “negative information” (负面信息) about target companies, then manipulated content, they said, through “clickbait headlines” (标题党), misattribution, and deceptive editing, colorfully referred to as “grafting flowers onto trees”( 移花接木). In one case this May, Ding published an article claiming a company had been shut down for illegal activities, then spliced in unrelated video footage from a separate criminal case in another province, creating false associations that damaged the company’s reputation.

As described by police, the alleged extortion scheme followed a clear pattern. Ding would first publish damaging content about a company. He would then approach the company offering to sign what he called a “market promotion contract,” which essentially came with a promise to cease coverage. These contracts generally were for between 20,000 and 100,000 yuan annually, or about 2,750 to 14,000 dollars. The fee structure was calibrated, said police, based on a company’s size and “tolerance capacity” (承受能力) — essentially referring to what Ding deemed companies would be able to pay.

Ding’s operation reportedly netted multiple companies, with one executive telling police he was forced to pay over 100,000 yuan annually to stop the attacks, only to face renewed pressure after the expiration of “market promotion” contracts.

This latest case in Shanghai reflects the broader phenomenon of news extortion that has plagued China’s commercialized media landscape since at least the mid-1990s. Despite periodic crackdowns and isolated cases like this one, the practice persists — in large part because it exploits fundamental vulnerabilities in China’s heavily controlled information ecosystem. In this environment, media can have extraordinary power through perceived connections to the state press system, turning this authority to profit, while the media control policies of the Chinese Communist Party normalize the practice of removing “negative” or “sensitive” reporting. At the same time, there are no independent professional associations to advance ethical conduct within the media.

The investigation in Shanghai continues, police say, and Ding likely faces criminal charges for extortion.

Held over three grueling days every June, China’s high-stakes college entrance examinations rattle the nerves of students and parents across the country. Now, efforts by aspiring college students to harness artificial intelligence to ease the pressure and improve results are rattling the nerves of the authorities — perhaps an inevitable turn in the era of AI for a rite of passage with ancient roots.

Last Friday, three Chinese government agencies announced a coordinated crackdown on AI-generated misinformation and fraudulent schemes targeting the gaokao (高考), China’s make-or-break university entrance exam that every year determines the futures of more than 13.3 million students.

The enforcement action comes amid increasing signs, the authorities say, that AI tools have become central to how students prepare for the rite-of-passage exams, which were first introduced in 1952, three years after the founding of the People’s Republic of China. The exam was intended as a more meritocratic reincarnation of the centuries-old keju (科举), or imperial examination, that had qualified scholars in imperial China to serve in official bureaucratic roles — but was abolished in 1905 with the fall of the Qing dynasty.

Over the past two years, as AI tools have become readily available and China has touted AI as an area of priority, including in education, AI has become integral to students’ test preparation strategies. Since 2023, Chinese students have increasingly turned to generative AI platforms to write practice essays. Users have also tested ChatGPT, DeepSeek and other models on actual exam prompts.

The tri-ministerial campaign targets several violations, including the use of artificial intelligence tools to fabricate exam leaks and generate fake answer keys. The campaign specifically mentions also the spread of disinformation designed to exploit desperate families — who are willing to pay sometimes exorbitant prices for any imagined advantage. Some social media accounts and private tutors have claimed in recent weeks to have access to “top secret” information sourced from teachers who help set the papers, according to Friday’s government announcement.

Authorities have reportedly been alarmed by a rising online market of so-called “AI-enhanced” mock exams. Sellers of these exams online have claimed they are able, using AI, to forecast up to 80 percent of the actual test questions that can be expected.

Experts have dismissed these AI-based claims as deceptive. “It’s not that AI or tutors are accurately predicting questions, but rather that the gaokao follows certain patterns,” said Chen Zhiwen (陈志文), a member of the National Education Examination Steering Committee, in an interview with Shandong’s commercial Qilu Evening News (齐鲁晚报). He described the AI-driven prediction trend as a “marketing gimmick.”

The involvement of three government agencies in the latest crackdown — the Ministry of Education, the Cyberspace Administration of China and the Ministry of Public Security — points to the sensitive social and political nature of the annual exams. Those creating and spreading online rumors (编造, 故意传播虚假信息罪), disrupting public order (寻衅滋事罪) or circulating false exam content will face severe legal penalties, the authorities warned.

The legal framework makes clear that exam-related AI fraud now carries the same weight as traditional crimes against social stability.

These latest regulations speak to the leadership’s deep ambivalence toward AI as both an immense promise and a looming complication. The government has moved to integrate AI closely with the education system down to the primary level, and some universities, including Shanghai’s prestigious Fudan, are already moving to emphasize AI over traditional subjects in the humanities. But there is anxiety at the same time that AI could discourage critical thinking among new generations of students — and clearly that AI could undermine the integrity of the annual examinations that are promoted as the chief measure of merit in Chinese society.

It was meant to be a stiff and routine recitation of the official news — just like every other newscast China Central Television anchor Hu Die had delivered in her 17-year career. But a simple slip of the tongue brought a landslide of repercussions for Hu, who joined the state broadcaster in 2008 after winning its prestigious host competition the year before.

The slip occurred on Tuesday this week during a CCTV-13 newscast on the “Focus On” (共同关注) program, which occupies a prime evening time slot, as Hu recited harshly-worded criticism from China’s Taiwan Affairs Office (TAO) of Taiwan President Lai Ching-te’s (賴清德) May 20 anniversary speech — which in fact avoided clear provocation and offered a measured view of “a Taiwan of the world.” TAO spokesperson Chen Binhua (陳斌華) had responded to Lai’s speech by stressing the leadership’s standard formulation that unification cannot be obstructed, regardless of the position of Taiwan’s government and people.

Relaying Beijing’s position that unification is inevitable, Hu Die said first that “the two countries cannot be obstructed” before stumbling through a correction and concluding that “the motherland will eventually be unified.” Captured in screenshots and video shorts, the momentary lapse spread like wildfire on social media platforms inside and outside China.

Within hours of the broadcast, video clips of Hu Die’s remarks disappeared from CCTV’s website. The authorities also moved swiftly to expunge all versions of the broadcast online and across social media platforms. The swiftness of the effort to restrain all mention of the incident online reflects the extreme sensitivity of the Taiwan issue, which is one of several hard red lines for China’s heavily controlled media.

Users on Weibo entering “Hu Die” in the search field today will immediately see the search option “Hu Die’s verbal gaffe” (胡蝶口误), suggesting this has been a popular search term over the past 72 hours. Results, however, are not available.

Hu Die has not updated her personal account on Weibo since the incident, her last available post dating back to May 9.

Cross-strait messaging is a huge priority for China’s leadership and has its own sprawling apparatus beyond CCP-run central state media. China Taiwan Online (中国台湾网), for example, is a full-fledged website dedicated to Taiwan news, culture and exchange. The site’s ICP registration links it to Beijing Cross-Strait Cultural Exchange Co., Ltd. (北京海峡文化交流有限公司), a company held by another enterprise, Jiuzhou Cultural Communication Center (九州文化传播中心). This entity is in fact a state-run institution (事业单位) under the Taiwan Affairs Office of the Central Committee of the CCP (中共中央台湾工作办公室).

All media in China are bound by the political principle of “correct guidance of public opinion” (正確輿論導向), dating back to June 1989 and the aftermath of political protests that year and their brutal crackdown in Beijing. Central state media, such as China Central Television (CCTV) and the government’s Xinhua News Agency, serve as the vanguards of this policy and are held to the strictest standards.

The timing of Hu’s monumental error — for that is how CCTV’s management and the authorities are sure to regard it — proves especially sensitive given escalating tensions between China and Taiwan under Lai’s presidency. The CCP leadership in Beijing views Taiwan’s ruling Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) and its leader as dangerous forces of separatism, and it has

intensified military pressure around Taiwan since Lai’s inauguration. China conducted major military exercises following Lai’s inauguration speech in May 2024, and has since maintained elevated levels of military activity in the Taiwan Strait.

It remains to be seen what the snafu will mean for Hu Die, a 42-year-old anchor from Shaanxi province who has built a reputation as one of China Central Television’s most trusted faces, hosting such flagship programs as “Morning News” and serving as a chief on-camera reporter.

Earlier this month, state media across China went into overdrive to share the heart-stopping story of how Bupatam Abdukader, a 24-year-old female police officer in Xinjiang, had descended 40 meters into a narrow well to rescue a toddler, after attempts with conventional rescue equipment had reportedly failed. Dramatic video footage from the scene showed the officer stepping forward toward the perilous shaft, barely 40 centimeters wide, as she removed her jacket and said: “I’m thin, let me go down!” 

Cue the tales of heroism and self-sacrifice, standard fare for official rescue reports in China’s tightly controlled media environment, which tend to play down questions of readiness and responsibility. State media related how Bupatam, who is from Luopu County in the region’s Hotan Prefecture, had battled oxygen and tight confines — maintaining consciousness through deep breathing techniques — to bring the small girl up from the muddy bottom of an abandoned well. “When I touched the child in the well, she grabbed my finger. Her hand was so cold, yet so strong,” she recalled emotionally to the reporters waiting above ground. “I had only one thought, to get the child up first.”

As the dramatic rescue footage captured attention across the country, including video footage showing Bupatam as she finally emerged, covered head-to-toe in mud, local officials made the most of the opportunity. They presented the officer with a reward of 10,000 yuan and nominated her for the county’s “Model of Bravery” (见义勇为模范) honor. 

But as admiration for her heroism spread across Chinese social media, the conversation shifted rather suddenly to questions about Bupatam Abdukader’s employment status. In media reports, she was referred to generally as a “female auxiliary officer” (女辅警), making clear to the news-reading audience that she was a member of the “auxiliary police” (辅助警察) — meaning that rather than being under formal hire, she was support personnel for the regular police force, receiving inferior pay and benefits. 

Why, netizens wondered, should someone who had displayed such immense courage receive fewer benefits and less compensation than her formally employed counterparts?

Typically, unlike formal police officers with what are known as “established positions,” or bianzhi (编制), auxiliary officers receive lower salaries, reduced benefits, less job security, and fewer promotion opportunities despite the fact that they do the same work and face the same risks. 

China’s two-tier system for police and rescue work has frequently become a point of social debate. One of the most egregious examples came to the fore nearly 10 years ago as a fire at a chemical storage facility in the city of Tianjin erupted as a massive explosion that killed 173 people. Many of the dead were firefighters later found to have been auxiliaries under part-time contracts. 

As the officer’s heroic act in Xinjiang made the headlines, netizens pounced on the opportunity to reopen the longstanding debate about the gap between “official” and “auxiliary” status. “She should be given a formal position!” wrote one user. Another asked directly: “Why not give her a permanent position?”

On April 24, just over a week after the rescue, local authorities announced she would be “exceptionally promoted” from seventh to fifth rank within the auxiliary system. The announcement seemed only to throw the gap into sharper relief. While significant, the promotion maintained the officer’s auxiliary status rather than granting her formal employment.

As public pressure mounted, the Xinjiang government made an announcement through its official “Xinjiang Release” (新疆发布) account on social media channels in which it sought to rationalize the process of converting auxiliary hires to formal positions. Such a transition, it said, needed to follow strict procedures, including civil service examinations, merit-based special recruitment, and targeted recruitment programs.

“Bupatam is undoubtedly a hero,” the statement read, “but compared to the beautiful wish for ‘special handling,’ strictly following legal regulations for ‘conversion to permanent status’ requirements and serious, prudent merit recognition is what represents fairness and justice to all formal police officers and auxiliary police like her who fight on the public security front in various fields, selflessly protecting people’s lives and property.” In other words, the decision to keep Bupatam and others like her in “auxiliary” status, according to the statement, was about “system design.” And ultimately, the procedural approach prevented “favoritism and corruption to the greatest extent.” 

In many respects, the statement was a distraction from the obvious. As state media are well aware, the highly discriminatory nature of China’s two-tiered employment system has been repeatedly and conclusively documented — and even, despite the country’s highly controlled media environment, talked about. 

Six years ago, a report in China Comment (半月谈), an official journal under the government’s Xinhua News Agency, found significant pay disparities between auxiliary and formal hires. The latter were generally paid three times more for a marginally larger workload. And despite the fact that they remained essential, China Comment found that auxiliary officers experienced a profound lack of belonging (归属感) and social recognition, ultimately undermining the stability of the workforce and the effectiveness of the public security system.

This time around, mindful perhaps of the potential volatility of growing public calls to improve the status of an ethnic Uighur auxiliary officer, China Comment got behind authorities in Xinjiang. The journal praised the official response as exemplary crisis management that balanced institutional constraints with public sentiment, noting how it demonstrated that officials could find “the greatest common denominator” when navigating the tension between emotional appeals and regulatory frameworks. Echoing this sentiment, the state-run China Central Television commended the way officials, as it said, “did not avoid public expectations” but “explained facts and reasoning” while maintaining “respect for the hero.” 

The mini storm of discussion prompted this month by the heroics of Bupatam Abdukader reveals how a story of dramatic rescue — or any story, in fact — can quickly transform into a platform for broader social debates about equality and fairness. But it equally reveals how rapidly and effectively such debates can be managed by the state, using the means of restraint and amplification at its disposal.

At its core, Bupatam’s story is about a gap in visions of what heroism means, and how it should be rewarded. While public sentiment called for the officer’s brave human acts to be rewarded with real and tangible benefits, and the dignity that comes with truly equal status, the authorities managed to contain her within the Party’s limited vision of heroism. In that vision, the hero’s extraordinary sacrifice works only to serve and preserve the system — even if that system is premised on the most ordinary perpetuation of inequalities.

Sitting back in early January with the latest edition of Guangzhou’s Southern Metropolis Daily, one of the country’s leading metro newspapers, daily news readers were treated to a splashy page-one story about how China’s national plans for artificial intelligence development — known as “AI+” — were being unleashed in every sector of the economy and society. But the cover, importantly, was itself proof of how AI is transforming another crucial sector: the media.

The cover featured a striking figure 8 — or infinity symbol — in gradient colors of teal, orange, and yellow, floating above a miniature cityscape. Around this mathematical representation of limitless potential were arrayed digital icons depicting various sectors transformed by AI: doctors consulting computer screens, autonomous vehicles, smart classrooms, and connected urban infrastructure. At the bottom of the bright page, down below its characteristic masthead — and its motto, “Making China’s Best Newspaper” — were the words “created with JimengAI.”

The cover signaled an important departure for a newspaper that for decades had been known for its bold front-page graphics and striking photojournalism. It is certainly just the beginning of a trend that will reverberate through China’s media sector. The country’s newspaper industry in particular has faced major challenges in recent years, with sharp declines in print circulation and the closure of 55 newspaper titles in 2023, pushing outlets to cut costs and accelerate digital transformation. 

Talk of AI-led transformation in the media sector goes back at least six years to 2019, when surveys showed that 73 percent of Chinese journalists expected significant impacts on their profession due to AI technology. Meanwhile, state-run research institutes advocated strategically integrating AI across “news collection, production, distribution, reception and feedback” to comprehensively enhance “public opinion guidance capabilities” — in other words, to improve the party-state’s capacity to control information.

In recent months, as developments in AI have accelerated, there have been rising concerns about the future of the journalism profession in China — which has already been jeopardized, something far less talked about, by stringent political controls under Xi Jinping. When AI can ask questions, correct grammar, find information, and even write articles, many wonder if journalists will become obsolete. Writing earlier this year in China Youth Daily (中国青年报), a paper under the Chinese Communist Youth League that from the 1980s through the 2000s was known for its sometimes breakout reporting, journalist Zhang Tiankan (張田勘) voiced the hope and the anxiety: “Machine and robots free people from heavy physical labor and boring work, to do more important work, or let people become supervisors — and this beautiful prospect has today been partly realized,” he said. “But other worries have also arisen.”

Et tu, Graphic Designers?

It remains to be seen what the changes at Southern Metropolis Daily will mean for its visual designers and photojournalists. But the paper, which has been known through the years for its sometimes stunning page ones, has clearly not given up on its visual team entirely. 

Since January the newspaper has continued to feature strong news photography on the front page, such as its vivid full-page images during the Myanmar earthquake last month, or its stark cover back on April 5 showing then just-removed South Korean president Yoon Suk Yeol in profile. 

Still, one wonders if the writing is on the wall. 

Since the start of the year, a total of 36 front pages at the Southern Metropolis Daily have been generated with the help of AI, accounting for 35 percent of total covers. The vast majority of these have been produced by staff with the help of Jimeng AI, an AI image generation tool developed by Faceu Technology, a subsidiary of ByteDance — meaning these visuals were brought to you by the same company that gave the world TikTok. 

Other images are produced using YuanBao AI (元宝AI), an AI assistant developed by the technology giant Tencent. A few were also made using Doubao AI (豆包AI), another Bytedance creation that until the DeepSeek burst onto the scene was regarded by some as the country’s number-one chatbot, with more than 60 million active monthly users by November 2024.

On average, Southern Metropolis Daily is producing two to three AI-generated front pages per week. One perhaps revealing gap occurred from March 5-11, corresponding with the “two meetings” of China’s parliament and political advisory body. During that period, none of the covers in the newspaper dealing with the political meetings in Beijing were generated using AI. In fact, they retreated into conservatism, using all-red backgrounds and stiff images from the Great Hall of the People. Even as the paper strained at its chains to provide visual interest, it was clear that the aesthetic from on high was all about sticking to the austere.

The transition to AI is certainly the order of the day, and media across the country will continue to harness the technology to save time, cut costs, and remain on the cutting edge. But for media whose role is focused through the lens of Chinese Communist Party control, certain optics will remain impervious to change. 

Don’t expect AI-generated images of Xi Jinping — authorized ones, at least — any time soon.