"Vampire" Soccer Coach in Taiwan Forced Students to Donate Blood in Exchange For Academic Credits

A dark scandal shattered Taiwan’s National Taiwan Normal University (NTNU) when a women’s football coach, Zhou Tai-ying, was exposed for forcing students to donate blood in exchange for graduation credits.

It all started when a courageous student, Jian, stepped forward, revealing the coach’s relentless threats: give blood or risk academic ruin.

Jian recounted enduring over 200 blood draws—sometimes up to three a day, for 14 brutal days straight—all justified by so-called “research requirements.”

The procedures were carried out by untrained staff, leaving students terrified and traumatized.

As Jian’s story went viral, outrage swept through social media, dubbing Zhou the “vampire coach” and demanding justice.

Soon, other athletes broke their silence, painting a picture of a toxic, fearful environment ruled by coercion and silence.

Many feared confiding in their families, terrified of retaliation or being forced to abandon their education.

Images of weeping students and battered arms ricocheted across the internet, fueling nationwide disgust and fury.

By the eighth day, veins collapsed and wrists were targeted in desperation, as a tearful Jian described the agony of six failed attempts in one sitting.

NTNU’s halls became a stage for the country’s outrage, as the scandal snowballed into a symbol of abuse, power, and unchecked authority.

Jian’s nightmare stunned the nation as she described her journey through agony: endless needles, sleepless nights, and the constant threat of failure.

Her arms became battlegrounds, bruised and battered, until desperate staff poked her wrists, each attempt more excruciating than the last.

“It was blood and sweat for credit. I boiled with rage,” Jian shared, recalling the moment she completely broke down—captured forever in a viral video.

The threats were chilling: comply or be expelled, comply or never graduate.

The so-called “research” was a sham, with unqualified personnel performing unsafe procedures and no clear scientific goal.

Adding insult to injury, research subsidies intended for students were allegedly pocketed by the coach as “team funds.”

Jian’s trauma echoed across campus, inspiring others to tell their own stories of intimidation, exhaustion, and fear.

Some were driven to leave school, scarred by bullying and relentless pressure.

Terrified of bringing shame or conflict home, many suffered in silence, robbed of their happiness and trust in authority.

Jian’s heartbreaking words—“Forgiveness? Maybe in the next life”—became a rallying cry for victims everywhere.

The university, battered by the storm, was forced to finally face its failure.

Zhou Tai-ying, once a revered figure in Taiwanese football, tried to downplay the horror, framing her actions as a misguided attempt to “help the team.”

But her half-hearted apology—“It’s my fault for making you feel this way”—only stoked the flames of public fury.

In a scrawled letter, she expressed “deep regret” for her “reckless words and behaviour,” but the damage was already irreversible.

NTNU wasted no time, publicly firing Zhou and barring her from ever coaching again on campus.

Online, the “vampire coach” moniker went viral as students and parents demanded not just her removal, but real accountability and criminal charges.

When the university quickly deleted both Zhou’s apology and the official statement from its social pages, suspicions of a cover-up exploded.

Local education officials slapped NTNU with administrative penalties, demanding a total overhaul of ethics and oversight procedures.

Many saw these actions as mere damage control, with too many questions left unanswered.

Why did the blood draws continue for years? Who else enabled this reign of terror? And where did all that blood go?

With trust in campus leadership shattered, calls for independent investigations grew louder than ever.

As the scandal raged, more victims stepped into the light, describing a regime of bullying, manipulation, and fear.

One student admitted the trauma became so intense she took a leave of absence, unable to bear Zhou’s relentless harassment.

“I just didn’t want my parents to know. If my dad found out, he’d fight the coach,” she confessed, her story echoed by many others.

Students described being bullied into silence, convinced that any protest would end their dreams of graduation.

The emotional wounds ran deep: “My college years should have been filled with joy, but all I feel now is disgust,” one survivor wrote.

Social media gave these stories wings, as survivors formed a chorus demanding answers and support.

For many, NTNU’s slow, secretive response was an added betrayal, signaling that reputation mattered more than student safety.

The scandal forced a reckoning not just at NTNU, but across Taiwan, igniting debate about student rights, mental health, and institutional power.

Victims’ testimonies are now quoted in legislative halls, their suffering a catalyst for urgent reforms.

The blood scandal is more than a campus controversy—it’s a nationwide wakeup call on abuse and accountability.

The NTNU scandal exposed a catastrophic breakdown of oversight and ethical standards within one of Taiwan’s top universities.

Investigators discovered the blood collection began as early as 2019 and ran for years, unchecked and unregulated.

Principal Wu Cheng-chi publicly apologized for the school’s “negligence,” vowing sweeping changes and a full review of procedures.

Top government officials and education leaders rushed to distance themselves, promising independent investigations and punishment for those responsible.

Yet doubts lingered: Would this be a true reckoning, or just another PR exercise?

Attention quickly turned to the researchers and supervisors who rubber-stamped Zhou’s projects—were they complicit or just willfully blind?

Professor Chen Hsueh-chih, a senior researcher, issued his own apology, admitting their experiments had caused unintended harm to students and families.

Critics slammed NTNU’s leadership for failing to act sooner and allowing abuses to continue for years for the sake of research or reputation.

Demands for national oversight and legal reforms surged as students and parents pressed for real, lasting change.

NTNU now faces a crisis of confidence and a mission to rebuild trust—if that’s even possible.

From the first viral post, Taiwan’s social networks exploded with fury, disbelief, and memes mocking Zhou as the “vampire coach.”

Hashtags like #BloodForGrades and #JusticeForNTNU trended for days, driving relentless pressure on the university and government.

Commenters demanded criminal investigations, student compensation, and public apologies—not just from Zhou, but from every enabler in the chain.

Online outrage spilled into mainstream media, with survivor videos, photos of bruised arms, and tearful interviews dominating the news cycle.

Parents and activists organized rallies, forums, and open letters, warning that the NTNU scandal was only the tip of the iceberg.

Attempts by the university to censor and control the narrative—by deleting apology letters and official statements—only fueled suspicions of a cover-up.

National media seized on every twist, making sure the story stayed in the headlines and politicians felt the heat.

The scandal quickly transformed into a national debate about ethics, transparency, and student rights.

As one student tweeted, “Exchanging blood for credits isn’t just barbaric. It’s a crime.”

For Jian and other victims, public solidarity offered validation and the first flicker of hope for real change.

Facing the fury of a nation, NTNU took swift action, firing Zhou and promising a total review of their academic practices.

Education authorities handed down penalties, demanding the university overhaul its ethics training and create new safeguards for student research.

Zhou, disgraced and barred from ever coaching again, disappeared from public view—her handwritten apology now infamous, her legacy in ruins.

Yet survivors and activists weren’t satisfied; many demanded criminal prosecution, financial compensation, and support for those still suffering trauma.

Legal scholars weighed in, calling for new national laws to define and prevent medical abuse, coercion, and exploitation in all university settings.

Some politicians proposed the formation of a permanent oversight board to police campus research and protect student rights.

For NTNU, the fallout is just beginning, as lawsuits, investigations, and public anger show no sign of fading.

Rebuilding trust will take years, and every university in Taiwan is now under a microscope.

The message is clear: no institution is above the law, and no abuse will be tolerated again.

The NTNU blood scandal has ignited a tidal wave of reform demands across Taiwan’s schools and sports programs.

Student groups, parents, and lawmakers are united in their calls for radical change: strict consent policies, independent ethics panels, and anonymous whistleblower protections.

National education authorities are now drafting new rules to ensure no student is ever forced or tricked into medical procedures again.

Universities across the island are rushing to review their own research practices, terrified of being the next to fall.

Victims and advocates are also calling for mandatory counseling and long-term support for anyone affected by campus abuse.

Parents demand transparency on all academic requirements and the right to opt their children out of risky “research” schemes.

The scandal has already rewritten the rules of student safety and reshaped the public’s expectations of how schools should be run.

As lawmakers push for new laws, survivors warn that true justice means nothing unless institutions put consent and ethics first, always.

Taiwan’s academic world is on notice: change is no longer optional—it’s mandatory.

The NTNU scandal’s shockwaves have rattled Taiwan’s educational, sporting, and legal communities to their core.

Universities everywhere are scrambling to reassure students and parents, pledging audits and emergency reforms.

Medical professionals have raised alarms about the physical and psychological dangers of repeated blood draws, especially by untrained staff.

The story has sparked a national reckoning over the power imbalance between coaches and students—and how easily trust can become betrayal.

Human rights groups are demanding a comprehensive overhaul of research laws to guarantee the safety, dignity, and autonomy of every student.

Media coverage remains relentless, with new details surfacing daily and survivor voices refusing to be silenced.

The scandal is now a fixture in policy debates, training programs, and public consciousness.

For those who suffered, the pain lingers—but their courage has forced a nation to face uncomfortable truths.

Taiwan is determined to make this the last time any student is bled, bullied, or betrayed in the name of education.

NTNU’s “vampire coach” saga stands as a chilling reminder of what happens when power goes unchecked and students’ voices are ignored.

But from the darkness, a new resolve has emerged: to build a culture of safety, respect, and accountability in every classroom, lab, and locker room.

Jian and her fellow survivors have turned their suffering into a movement, forcing a reckoning at every level of Taiwan’s education system.

For NTNU, real healing will require not just reforms on paper, but a sustained, transparent commitment to ethical action.

As Taiwan confronts the failures that let this scandal fester, it also embraces the hope that lasting change is possible.

The lessons are seared into national memory: no more secrets, no more silence, no more sacrificing students for grades or reputation.

Survivors have proven that even in the face of fear and abuse, truth can triumph.

The world is watching Taiwan’s next steps—demanding an end to “blood for credit,” and the dawn of a new era in student protection.

Only then will the wounds begin to heal, and the shadows finally recede.