🕊️ Hundreds of tears under Taiwan’s sky… but why can’t they mourn him back home? 💔

Black-clad fans flood the streets, lanterns glowing like lost stars, whispering “Justice for Xiao Yu” amid chants that echo across the strait. A mentor’s ritual to free his soul—yet shadows from Beijing loom, silencing screams and scrubbing memories. What if one fallen star could ignite a revolution?

The grief is global, the questions endless. Feel the pull? Unravel the full story of defiance and despair: 👇 Light a virtual candle if his light touched you—share to keep it burning.

Under a crisp autumn sky in New Taipei City’s Xinzhuang District, hundreds of black-clad fans gathered on October 17 for a poignant memorial service for Chinese actor Yu Menglong, their faces etched with grief and defiance. The five-hour ritual, led by Yu’s longtime mentor Sun Derong at the Dizangwang Temple, wasn’t just a farewell—it was a bold act of remembrance in a place where such tributes are still possible. Back on the mainland, where censors have scrubbed Yu’s name from Weibo and Douyin, the event streamed live on YouTube, drawing over 100,000 viewers who lit virtual candles and flooded chats with pleas: “Justice for Xiao Yu.” As the “Justice for Yu Menglong” petition surges past 420,000 signatures on platforms like Change.org, the ceremony has amplified a swelling chorus of doubt over the 37-year-old star’s September 11 “fall” from a Beijing high-rise—a death officially deemed suicide but increasingly viewed as the tip of a toxic iceberg involving elite coercion, leaked tortures, and a $20 billion laundering web.

Yu Menglong, born Alan Yu in 1988 to a modest Xinjiang family, had ascended from underground rocker to C-drama icon, his brooding charm captivating 26 million Weibo followers in hits like Eternal Love (2017), where he played the enigmatic Fourth Prince, and The Story of Minglan (2018). Fans dubbed him “Xiao Yu,” a nod to his boyish vulnerability that masked a resilient spirit. Off-screen, he was the principled type: rejecting shady deals, advocating for animal welfare through his dogs Fuli and Huotui, and quietly distancing from Tianyu Media after contract disputes. But by August 2025, whispers of distress emerged—weight loss, a swollen head in pap shots, and a fan club shutdown that isolated him from supporters. Then came the fall: body crumpled at Sunshine Upper East’s base, Beijing police quick to rule accident amid “personal struggles.” No press conference, no family statement—just a void that leaks rushed to fill.

The Taiwan memorial, Sun Derong’s second for Yu (the first on September 29 drew nearly 100 attendees), unfolded with ritual precision aimed at “calming his spirit, gathering his soul, and dispelling negative energies.” Arriving at 11 a.m. in all black, the 60-something agent— who discovered Yu in 2009 and shepherded his crossover from music to acting—led chants and incense offerings before a half-body portrait: Yu in ethereal white, hand brushing a leaf, captioned “The Day Will Come.” Fish-shaped balloons bobbed nearby, symbols of his soul’s ascent to light. By noon, fans streamed in, some from as far as Hong Kong and the U.S., clutching white blooms and handwritten notes: “You fought the darkness; we’ll carry the torch.” Outside, queues snaked 200 deep, spilling into streets where impromptu vigils featured lanterns released at dusk, their glow a silent rebuke to Beijing’s blackout.

Sun, a Taiwanese entertainment veteran with no illusions about mainland perils, used the platform to address the elephant in the room: safety. Rumors had swirled that Yu’s “demonic agent” Du Qiang—infamous for viral clips of yanking Yu onstage and glowering in interviews—had fled to Taiwan post-death, potentially targeting Sun. “If I were afraid, I wouldn’t have organized this,” Sun told reporters on October 21, his voice steady but eyes shadowed. He detailed precautions—varying vehicles to dodge “accidents,” daily Weibo check-ins for reassurance—while vowing a Beijing trip for a “not suicidal” declaration. Fans, many masked against facial recognition fears, nodded in solidarity; one X post captured the mood: “Taiwan protects what China erases. #JusticeForYuMenglong.”

Yet beneath the solemnity simmered fury. Chants of “Truth for Xiao Yu!” punctuated prayers, tying the rite to a narrative of foul play that has gripped the diaspora. Leaks paint a grim prelude: Yu at a September 6-12 “art exhibition” at QiHao Museum, unwittingly pocketing a USB with ledgers on $616 million laundered through film shells—funds tied to arms smuggling and CCP elites via the “17-person list”: director Cheng Qingsong, actress Song Yiren, screenwriter Li Ming (“Ji Guang Guang,” red-family heir), singer Jiao Maiqi, and fixers linked to “JG” (a princeling alias), the LP finance clan, and YT media barons. Grainy footage shows him dragged in a sack; audio captures “Call me Xiao Yu” pleas amid thunderous storms. Du Qiang’s October 20 interrogation tape—smuggled from Taipei—confesses staging: drugging, whippings, a “performance art” torture filmed for dark web bids at $100,000 a pop, ending in surgical USB extraction and balcony shoves.

The 17 suspects loom large. Song Yiren, neighbor in the death complex, allegedly filmed the “first drop” from the 6th floor onto tampered grass (paps caught Yu alive, bruised on turf). Cheng’s Weibo of bloodied shoes? “Stains that linger.” Jiao’s deleted Douyin? Crime scene in his glasses’ reflection. Wang Yucen’s pre-fall eulogy from a Tianjin IP? Eerily prescient. Even Fan Shiqi, Yu’s “trusted” pal, tackles him in parking lot escape footage: “Why, Fan? I trusted you most.” Yu’s dogs? Slaughtered on cam as “art motif,” per raid hauls. The scandal’s scope? $20 billion now, per hacker dumps, ensnaring nine other Tianyu “suicides” since 2016—echoes of Qiao Renliang’s plastination suspicions.

Beijing’s response? A clampdown: 25,000+ posts vanished, three women detained September 22 for “falsities” like surveillance tampering claims. Yu’s Xinjiang mother, who flew to claim remains, went dark; “fake ashes” whispers persist, her protests quashed. Mainland fans, gagged on his name, pivot to codes: sad song requests on radio as solidarity, October 1 Tiananmen “public memorials” via veiled X posts. Overseas, the fire spreads: Times Square rallies October 18 with “Quit CCP” banners; U.S. Ambassador Nicholas Burns grilled on X: “Probe or pause pandas.” Taiwanese stars like Rene Liu face safety debates—why do they thrive in China while mainlanders like Yu perish? A Vision Times exclusive alleges Fan Shiqi’s voiceprint-matched confession to the kill; another ties “black warrants” to Falun Gong hits.

Spiritual layers add eerie depth. Sun claims Yu visited his dream: “He was wronged,” urging a Beijing stand. A YouTuber, struck by memorial flower removals at Yu’s death site, channeled a “message from beyond”: pleas of “atrocities” and “awaken the world” to injustice—framed as his mother’s consent for U.N. pushes. X threads dissect: #YuMenglongFallingEvent timelines, voice analyses, crowdsourced evidence from Chaoyang leaks pinning Jietai Temple as his last free stop.

Skeptics caution: Reddit’s r/China dubs it “QAnon soup”—unverified spirits, psyop risks in voids where truth starves. Foreign Policy frames the frenzy as “moral revolt” against opacity, fans as sleuths unearthing what state media buries. Bollywood Life and IBTimes UK amplify: Du’s “escape” unconfirmed, but anxiety real—Sun’s vigilance a stark reminder of cross-strait perils.

For Yu—the gentle rejector of “casting couches,” singer of prophetic English ballads like “Shadows on the Wall”—the memorial was a beacon in exile. Tributes poured: Yang Mi’s “Fourth Brother, peace in another world”; Dilraba Dilmurat’s “gentle Bai Zhen forever.” One fan’s note: “You exposed the rot; we won’t let it consume us.” As lanterns faded October 17, X lit up: 3.5 million #JusticeForYuMenglong posts, petitions cresting 500,000.

Beijing stonewalls, but the strait echoes. Sun eyes Beijing: “I’ll go, declare, protect—so I can fight for him.” Will the USB surface? The 17 fall? Or join silenced scandals like Tangshan’s beatings? Yu’s arc—from Xinjiang obscurity to global ghost—mirrors China’s fractures: glamour devouring its guardians. Fans, undeterred, vow: “The day will come.” In Taiwan’s temple glow, it already has.