Du Xiu Chapter 10

Lu Fan offered encouragement, “It’s okay. This is just a class experiment—it doesn’t matter if it’s not funny. We’re simply testing the theory. Stand-up comedy is the most original art form. All you need to do is speak your true thoughts and feelings.”

Chu Duxiu hesitated, silent.

Lu Fan patiently continued, “Or maybe I can give you a hint. Many performers start by talking about themselves—their name, hometown, profession—things no one can steal. Those unique traits are what make great material.”

Chu Duxiu muttered under her breath, “Hi everyone, my name is Chu Duxiu. There’s not much to say about it, except compared to my namesake, I’m just… so insignificant.”

Her tone was awkward, but her expression was lively—somehow, it came off as oddly humorous.

A ripple of laughter spread through the classroom. Even Lu Fan was amused. “See? That was great! You just need more confidence. Let’s try again, something a bit longer this time.”

Chu Duxiu fell into thought, searching for inspiration. Tentatively, she asked, “My real thoughts right now?”

“Of course, just be yourself!” Lu Fan nodded emphatically. “Your current emotions, your current thoughts—even if they don’t seem particularly funny or valuable, say them anyway. Don’t force humor for humor’s sake. Express what you genuinely feel, and you might surprise yourself.”

It had to be said—Lu Fan’s patience and encouragement gave Chu Duxiu a sense of security.

Her initial awkwardness and tension faded, her mind gradually coming alive. She tuned into the energy of the classroom, quietly assembling her words.

“Let’s give her some time—opening acts are always the hardest. How about a little encouragement?” Lu Fan initiated the applause. “It’s normal if the jokes don’t land at first, but I want this class to stay lively and fun. Whenever someone tries, let’s celebrate the effort first—then we’ll polish it together.”

Wang Nali and Scallion immediately joined in clapping, turning to Chu Duxiu with warm, expectant smiles.

The classroom erupted in enthusiastic applause, even a few scattered cheers mixed in—creating an immersive atmosphere, as if they were already in a comedy club.

Perhaps this was the essence of performance: carve out a stage, even an imagined one, and the rest would flow naturally.

Chu Duxiu took a deep breath, shedding her earlier restraint. She scanned the room and spoke at full volume. “Hello everyone, I’m Chu Duxiu. Today I’ve learned so much about stand-up comedy that my head’s spinning – things like subverting expectations, mining jokes from negative attitudes…”

“But through this learning, I’ve become absolutely certain of one thing: I’m a stand-up comedy genius.”

The class exchanged puzzled looks, visibly confused by her claim.

After a deliberate pause, Chu Duxiu patted her chest and laughed at herself. “Seriously, I’m not just blowing smoke. Take all those attitudes the teacher mentioned – stupidity, weirdness, fear, difficulty – I’d score perfect marks in every category.”

“Just look at my daily life – my negative emotions are off the charts. If we could monetize self-deprecating humor, I’d be a bona fide ‘billion-negative’aire.”

The room erupted in laughter, delighted by her unexpected punchline.

Scallion let out an impressed whistle. “Wow—”

Chu Duxiu heaved a dramatic sigh. “Learning this stuff is hard. Stand-up’s way tougher than I thought. The teacher says we shouldn’t use puns or overuse internet slang either.”

“Only amateur comedians rely on those tricks – low-effort, low-skill comedy.”

Chu Duxiu hung her head and mumbled, “To be honest, I wasn’t planning to use them… I didn’t even know about this rule.”

Some audience members were already stifling giggles, shoulders shaking with anticipation.

“But the moment she said that, I felt personally called out.” She suddenly lifted her head, eyes wide. “Aren’t I exactly that amateur, lowbrow comedian? Who else would be better suited for puns?”

“The teacher thought she was warning us away from bad habits – but she just showed this ‘billion-negative’aire exactly where to invest!”

The classroom exploded with laughter.

Wang Nali clapped excitedly. “Call back!”

A grin spread across Lu Fan’s face, reaching all the way to her eyebrows. She gave two thumbs up in silent encouragement.

As the classroom atmosphere grew livelier, Chu Duxiu relaxed her posture, casually counting off points on her fingers. “We learned some more advanced stuff too, like ‘setup = theme + attitude + premise.’ While scientists have physics formulas, we comedians have comedy formulas.”

“Another example: ‘Laughter comes from subverted expectations.’ Sounds impressive, right? Almost like scientific theory or sci-fi concepts—definitely not something to joke about.” She tilted her head in mock frustration. “But here’s the thing—I’ve always zoned out in physics class, my mind wandering to the most absurd, nonsensical ideas.”

“So I have a bold proposal today, and I need your help to make comedy history!”

The students listened with rapt attention, waiting for her next move.

“What if—just hear me out—we make everyone burst into laughter even when the joke isn’t funny? No setups, no premises. If we can’t break physics formulas, can’t we at least break comedy formulas?”

She raised her hand dramatically. “Who wants to experience being like the Trisolarans? They messed with humanity’s physics research—let’s mess with comedy research!”

“How delightfully evil would that be? The stand-up comedy equivalent of a dimensional foil!”

“Until those poor comedy theorists cry in despair—’The science of comedy doesn’t exist!'”*

Thunderous laughter exploded through the classroom, powerful enough to shake off any lingering drowsiness from the previous session.

Students doubled over in hysterics, some even slapping their thighs in delight. After enduring the torment of comedy theory, they resonated deeply with her routine, their cheers erupting like students celebrating after the college entrance exam, the collective buzz resembling a swarm of excited bees.

Even Lu Fan, their instructor, laughed until her head ached. Rubbing her temples to regain composure, she finally managed to control her facial muscles and remarked with amusement, “Sounds like Duxiu had quite the existential crisis last class—truly put through the wringer by stand-up theory.”

The wave of jubilation showed no signs of receding, yet Chu Duxiu remained motionless at its center. Shedding her earlier stage bravado, she now stood with hands clasped demurely, the picture of a student meekly awaiting feedback.

Noticing this stark contrast, Lu Fan found it even more hilarious.

There was something different about Chu Duxiu offstage—more restrained in daily life than during performances, yet that same vibrant wit followed her like a shadow, unwavering and ever-present.

Lu Fan glanced around the room. “I don’t think this needs any revisions, does it?”

A drawn-out chorus of agreement rose from the crowd. “Yeees—”

With an approving clap, Lu Fan grinned. “As expected from one of my favorite students! That rebellious humor is exactly your style!”

Chu Duxiu ducked her head, slightly embarrassed by the praise, before finally sitting back down.

The lively workshop passed quickly. Later, Lu Fan called on a few more students to try their hand at stand-up—first listening to their raw expressions, then offering creative guidance to help them refine their material into punchlines.

Before wrapping up, Lu Fan stood at the front of the class and said, “Ultimately, no matter what techniques we teach, they’re all born from practice. If you find methods that work better for you, feel free to ditch the theory—or better yet, share them with the class.”

“Stay true to your own voice. Don’t worry whether others see your perspective as positive or negative.”

Her gaze landed on Chu Duxiu, and she added teasingly, “Like a certain someone here, who used comedy techniques to write an anti-comedy routine—basically crafting a stand-up dimensional foil, right?”

The first training session ended amidst waves of laughter.

After class, Chu Duxiu and Wang Nali walked together to the subway station. Barely out of the classroom—while waiting for the elevator, no less—Chu Duxiu was already shrinking under her companion’s relentless praise.

Wang Nali, still replaying the performance in her mind, said admiringly, “Damn, you’ve been holding out on us.”

Chu Duxiu waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on—”

“No, seriously, the moment you opened your mouth, it was like you became a different person. So cool!” Wang Nali clicked her tongue. “God, now I feel like an idiot for trying to impress you earlier. Talk about bringing a knife to a gunfight.”

Chu Duxiu arched an eyebrow. “Pretty sure we all brought knives today. Lu Fan’s the one with the artillery.”

“Honestly? I think you’re just as good as the comedians on TV.” Wang Nali lowered her voice, then suddenly gasped, rummaging frantically through her bag before heaving a sigh of relief.

Chu Duxiu blinked at the abrupt panic. “Almost forgot something?”

“Nope, your autograph’s still here. Good.” Wang Nali patted her bag smugly. “Just gotta wait till you’re famous so I can sell it to fans. Might even cover my train ticket to Yancheng.”

“???”

Chu Duxiu was torn between irritation and amusement. “The Spring Festival Gala should recruit you for their skits.”

She’d actually fallen for that Oscar-worthy performance.

Wang Nali smirked. “I’ll take that. Acting’s half the battle anyway.”

The glass doors of the office building slid open, releasing Chu Duxiu and Wang Nali into the evening bustle. They’d barely stepped onto the sidewalk when Scallion shot past them like a lightning bolt—only to skid to a halt, backtrack two paces, and flash a grin.

“Honey-glazed chicken rice rules! See you later!” he yelled, already sprinting toward the tree-lined curb where a slender figure waited.

Wang Nali blinked. “Why did he just call you ‘honey-glazed chicken rice?”

“Don’t ask me,” Chu Duxiu said. “When your stage name is ‘Scallion,’ I guess everything becomes food-themed.”

“So that’s his name.” Wang Nali squinted at the distant silhouette. “Is someone picking him up?”

Chu Duxiu glanced at the figure. “Probably his girlfriend.”

“How did you know?” Wang Nali gaped. “Sure you two aren’t from the same club?”

Chu Duxiu shrugged. “Deduced from his sets. Eighty percent of his early material was ‘my girlfriend once—’”

Typhoon Transit hosted the busiest open mics in Yan City, and Scallion was a regular. His early sets revolved entirely around his girlfriend – every punchline featured some anecdote about her. Only later did he branch out into other material.

Open mics were workshops disguised as performances—a revolving door of comedians sanding down rough jokes through repetition. You could know a stranger’s life story without ever learning their real name.

The night was hushed, the moon veiled in a gauzy haze while street lamps glittered like scattered stars.

Their walk to the subway station took over ten minutes—plenty of time to dissect the origins of “Typhoon Transit” and that inexplicable “honey-glazed chicken rice” moniker.

“So you’re a real comedy nerd,” Wang Nali concluded, eyes widening. “No wonder you’ve caught so many sets. You were in the scene way before me.” She jabbed a finger at Chu Duxiu. “You only just started performing, but you’ve been absorbing it for years.”

Chu Duxiu crossed her arms. “…I just really like honey-glazed chicken.”

“Bullshit. If it was just about the food, you’d have forgotten the jokes by now.” Wang Nali grinned triumphantly. “But you remember every punchline. Face it—you’re obsessed.”

The retort died on Chu Duxiu’s lips.

A gust of wind roared through the tunnel as headlights flared in the darkness. The train arrived like a silver bullet, screeching to a halt.

“Oh shit—this is me!” Wang Nali yelped, already backpedaling. “Next week, comedy nerd!” She vanished into the crowded car before Chu Duxiu could protest, her laughter trailing behind like confetti.

Chu Duxiu called out a farewell, watching as Wang Nali darted toward the opposite platform, her figure gradually eclipsed by the sliding metal doors. Turning back to wait for her own train, Chu Duxiu pressed a hand to her chest—her heart still hammering from that offhand accusation.

Did she actually like stand-up comedy?

Of course not. Attending all those open mics had been coincidental. Remembering every punchline? Just a byproduct of her good memory.

Yet here she was, enrolled in a workshop. Enjoying it, even.

…That only proved she liked learning new things.

Like some flustered teenager denying her first crush, Chu Duxiu cross-examined herself with increasingly feeble excuses. But no amount of mental gymnastics could prop up the crumbling facade.

No. No no no. This was supposed to be a casual fling with stand-up comedy—since when had she caught feelings?

Her mother would never approve. “An unsuitable match,” she’d declare before ruthlessly smashing this ill-fated romance like an overbearing feudal parent.

And really, what future did they have? A relationship without material foundation was just sand slipping through fingers—no storm required, two steps and it’d scatter.

Chu Duxiu desperately rationalized, scrambling to convince herself to walk away. Yet every mental argument morphed into a goddamn comedy bit, even weaponizing the workshop’s techniques against her.

A terrifying realization struck: Xie Shenci was playing 4D chess. First “finding” her resume at the bar, then inviting her onstage, now luring her into this training camp—slowly opening Pandora’s box until she had no choice but to… work in comedy?

And he owned the damn company! This wasn’t mentorship—it was capitalist entrapment!

Translator’s Note:

*Here is a reference to the famous Chinese science fiction “三体” (The Three-Body Problem)