“‘Old Tomato’ Unmasked: Bilibili’s Lao Fan Qie Is Actually Fudan Graduate Zhang Qiushi”

Born in Inner Mongolia in 1997, Zhang moved with his family to Shanghai at the age of six. He later earned a finance degree from the prestigious Fudan University and continued on to postgraduate studies, where his academic performance was described as “successful.” Despite these conventional credentials, his online persona has always leaned toward the opposite end of the spectrum—bright, irreverent, and unmistakably youth‑oriented.

The revelation of his legal name first resurfaced in a “national campus male god” competition post on Weibo, where a screen capture of his official identification appeared. A second, more formal appearance came in a video produced for the Communist Youth League, which listed his name as Zhang Qiushi. For many of his followers, the information was new; for a handful of long‑time observers, it confirmed a detail they had already spotted in official footage.

The public reaction has been overwhelmingly light‑hearted. Commentators flooded the platform with jokes about the stark contrast between “Old Tomato” and the decidedly more bourgeois‑sounding Zhang Qiushi. One meme likened the name to “an old cadre with a built‑in BGM,” another imagined him pulling out a thermos to brew goji‑berry tea—a gentle ribbing of the stereotype of a middle‑aged party official. Users have also coined a tongue‑in‑cheek trend about “losing his internet nickname,” noting that Zhang’s real name now appears alongside his avatar in a way that few other creators have experienced.

Crucially, the chatter contains no hint of backlash or political scrutiny. The tone is celebratory, focusing on the novelty of discovering the person behind the screen rather than any perceived deception. This stands in contrast to other instances where Chinese influencers’ real identities have sparked controversy, underscoring how Zhang’s content—largely apolitical gaming and entertainment—has insulated him from more serious scrutiny.

From an industry standpoint, the episode highlights a broader practice among digital creators: the adoption of memorable pseudonyms to forge distinct brands. A name like “Lao Fan Qie” is instantly searchable, meme‑ready and readily marketable, while a conventional name such as Zhang Qiushi carries the gravitas required for contracts, sponsorships and official collaborations. The accidental marriage of the two worlds in Zhang’s case offers a reminder that behind every avatar lies a real person with legal and financial responsibilities—an element that can affect everything from advertising deals to tax filings.

The social media buzz also taps into a deeper cultural conversation about digital identity. As more of life migrates online, audiences are increasingly curious about the “real” people behind the personas they follow. The humorous dissonance between Zhang’s scholarly background and his whimsical on‑screen alter ego reflects a universal tension: the desire to curate an entertaining image while maintaining a private self. In China’s tightly networked environment, where the state sometimes monitors online influence, the fact that Zhang’s real name has already appeared in an official youth‑league video suggests a tacit acceptance, or even an invitation, for popular internet figures to engage with institutional platforms.

Overall, the story of Lao Fan Qie’s real name is less a scandal and more a cultural footnote that illustrates how modern fame operates on a dual track. It underscores the strategic use of nicknames in the creator economy, the light‑hearted ways fans negotiate the divide between the virtual and the personal, and the subtle ways official bodies incorporate internet personalities into their own outreach. For the millions who tune in to watch “Old Tomato” navigate virtual battlefields, the discovery that he is, in fact, Zhang Qiushi adds a new layer of humanity to a character already beloved for his humor and skill.