Du Xiu Chapter 12

A moment later, Wang Nali finished consulting with her mentor and noticed that Chu Duxiu had switched teams, now sitting with another group. Puzzled, she asked, “Weren’t you going to choose Ms. Lu?”

She distinctly remembered Chu Duxiu had been halfway through the line for Lu Fan’s group, so seeing her as part of Xie Shenci’s team now was naturally surprising.

“You don’t get it. You all chose stand-up comedy, but I chose the art of social maneuvering,” Chu Duxiu sighed before trying to persuade her. “Why don’t you join this group too?”

Wang Nali glanced at Xie Shenci and decisively refused, “No! My script isn’t that kind of style.”

It’s not like her script was Mr. Xie’s style either!

Either way, Chu Duxiu gritted her teeth and submitted her first draft, waiting for Xie Shenci’s feedback. She hadn’t held out much hope, but his comments far exceeded her expectations—every bit as sharp as those from seasoned performers like Lu Fan. It actually took her by surprise.

Chu Duxiu had displayed her first draft in Word on her laptop, and Xie Shenci not only provided suggestions in the comments but even refined a couple of punchlines, making the content more structured. As she skimmed through his feedback, a pang of guilt welled up inside her. She lamented her own failure to recognize a true expert—who would’ve thought Mr. Xie actually knew how to edit a script and wasn’t just some clueless boss pretending to understand and giving arbitrary orders?

He just couldn’t perform—that didn’t mean he couldn’t write.

Chu Duxiu stole a glance at Xie Shenci, finding it hard to imagine that someone with his face could actually craft jokes.

Still, skill was one thing, but her rebellious heart itched for a fight. She wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

The two sat facing each other, each holding a laptop—Chu Duxiu revising her script, Xie Shenci reviewing show proposals. In the long stretch of silence, they minded their own business, neither disturbing the other.

The only sounds in the room were the crisp clicks of keyboards and mice—it could’ve easily been a corporate office scene. That was, until Chu Duxiu broke the silence.

“Mr. Xie, I don’t think we’re a good fit.”

“Why?” Xie Shenci looked up, his tone composed. “Do you have issues with my edits?”

“Your edits are fine.” Chu Duxiu hid behind her laptop screen, masking her unease, and muttered, “I’m just not used to working closely with the boss.”

She figured others had avoided Xie Shenci for the same reason—who’d want to deal with their boss every day? Naturally, people would steer clear if they could.

At least with Lu Fan and Nie Feng, who were performers, you could joke around and banter. But editing drafts under Xie Shenci’s watch felt as tedious as doing homework!

Xie Shenci blinked and asked, “Have you decided to join the show yet?”

Chu Duxiu hesitated. “No…”

“Then I’m not technically your boss. You should be able to adapt.”

“…”

Damn, that’s airtight logic.

Chu Duxiu hedged, “It’s just that… the scripts I’ll be writing in the future might not be suitable for you to edit. I’m afraid you’d find them offensive.”

“You’re planning to roast me in your material?” Xie Shenci caught on immediately and said magnanimously, “Go ahead. I don’t mind. Stand-up comedy is the art of offense.”

“But I’m afraid you won’t even make it through the draft.”

“What’s the theme?”

Chu Duxiu racked her brains, then her eyes lit up as she blurted out the most outrageous thing she could think of: “The Underdog’s Revenge: Four Stand-Up Comedy Overlords’ Domineering Compulsory Love.”

“?”

Xie Shenci reminded her gently, “There is a difference between stand-up comedy and outright slander.”

She put on a pained expression. “Sorry, I’m still a rookie. My technique isn’t polished yet, and sometimes I struggle to toe the line between creative writing and defamation. Maybe you should just…”

He cut in decisively, “Then go ahead and slander me. I won’t sue.”

“?”

“Just remember to let me read it when you’re done.” Xie Shenci added meaningfully, “The four overlords wouldn’t happen to be Mr. Krabs, Patrick, Squidward, and Plankton, would they?”

“???”

What the hell?! This isn’t some SpongeBob fanfiction!

Xie Shenci noticed her distracted expression and obvious desire to mingle elsewhere. “If you want feedback from Lu Fan and Nie Feng, you can take your draft to them. Even though they’re not in your group, they’ll still help you.”

“Really?” Chu Duxiu asked. “You don’t mind?”

She had nothing against Xie Shenci, but the real value of the workshop was interacting with other comedians. Her current group was too small—it just wasn’t as fun as bantering with Wang Nali and Scallion.

Xie Shenci nodded. “I don’t mind. Besides, there’ll be an open mic soon, and each group needs participants.”

Catching the subtext, Chu Duxiu ventured, “So you’re saying… after getting advice from the other mentors, I should use their revised drafts to outperform their own students?”

He countered, “Why not?”

“…”

Damn, Mr. Xie’s competitive streak runs deep—even open mics have to be won. He might not say it outright, but he’s clearly bothered that fewer people chose him.

“Absolutely, why not!” Meeting his gaze, she clasped her hands in mock solemnity. “May Your Excellency entrust this humble subject with the sacred mission of conquering through comedy! Should I fail to amuse, punish me as you see fit. I shall spare no effort, though my wit be dull, to vanquish all rivals, restore laughter’s glory, and return triumphant to my former group!”

“…Your improv skills really are something else.”

With Xie Shenci’s approval, Chu Duxiu immediately darted off towards Wang Nali’s group next door. As it happened, Wang Nali was chatting with her mentor, and when they saw Chu Duxiu bounding over excitedly, they couldn’t resist teasing her a little.

“I thought I’d been abandoned,” Lu Fan joked. “Outshone by Mr. Xie.”

“Not at all, I’m here now,” Chu Duxiu said, hugging her laptop as she squeezed in. “I’ll take advice from all three mentors—just like when I wrote my thesis, extracting the essence to produce dregs.”

Wang Nali burst into uncontrollable laughter at this. “Perfect! Absolutely perfect!”

Lu Fan didn’t mind which group Chu Duxiu belonged to at all and patiently went through her draft, sharing her own thoughts.

At the end of the day, the mentor groupings were just there to make script revisions easier. Each comedian had their own style, and choosing different mentors meant adjusting their approach differently. Even if there was an open mic evaluation, it was just like kindergarten gold stars—simply a way to encourage the students, with no real impact on the mentors themselves.

After getting feedback from Lu Fan, Chu Duxiu even mustered the courage to approach Nie Feng—and sure enough, wasn’t turned away. Her initiative even inspired Scallion from Nie Feng’s group, who promptly took his draft to Xie Shenci for input before also asking Lu Fan for suggestions.

Wang Nali, enthusiastically recommended by her friend, eventually submitted her first draft to Xie Shenci for review too. Staring at the returned edits, she marveled, “He really does give incredibly sharp feedback.”

Chu Duxiu, oddly proud of her successful promotion, nodded emphatically. “Right? Told you so.”

Xie Shenci wasn’t a performer but purely a behind-the-scenes figure, so those unfamiliar with him naturally had no idea of his expertise. But as trainees began circulating between groups, the barriers between them dissolved—and so did certain stereotypes. Soon, more and more people were bringing their drafts to Xie Shenci.

Before long, the three groups had balanced out, with every mentor busy editing scripts and thoroughly enjoying the process.

The classroom buzzed with laughter and lively chatter. Occasionally, the mentors themselves would banter, blending seamlessly into the camaraderie with their students.

In the corner, String Bean leaned against the window, idly flipping a cigarette box in his hand. Watching Xie Shenci now surrounded by people seeking advice—a far cry from the deserted scene earlier—he couldn’t help but let out a quiet scoff.

As the workshop neared its end, a head suddenly popped through the doorway: a woman in her thirties, dressed in a casual hoodie with striking, assertive features. “Quite the lively scene here,” she remarked.

Lu Fan turned and called out, “Director Shang.”

“Don’t mind me, I’m just here for someone.” Shang Xiaomei waved Xie Shenci over. “It’s about that matter Mr. Shang mentioned!”

Hearing this, Xie Shenci stood up. After bidding farewell to Chu Duxiu and the others, he left to discuss work with the director.

The brief interruption didn’t disturb anyone. Xie Shenci’s group members naturally dispersed, drifting over to the other two groups to chat. Chu Duxiu, Lu Fan, and Wang Nali laughed and joked together, with Scallion occasionally dropping by to join in—the atmosphere couldn’t have been more harmonious.

But of course, there’s always someone who can’t stand to see others happy.

Chu Duxiu and the others were chatting with Lu Fan about jokes when suddenly a voice—hoarse like a long-time smoker’s—cut in.

“You’re just leading the newbies astray, egging them on to write material that’ll get them on TV. Strip away the real essence of stand-up, and sooner or later, it’ll all go to waste.”

The group froze at his words.

Chu Duxiu and Wang Nali turned to see String Bean approaching, both wearing expressions of surprise—they’d never interacted with him before.

Lu Fan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everyone who gets on that show slaps on a label—I’m an English teacher, I’m a fresh grad—then builds their whole act around it.” String Bean crossed his arms, curling his lip. “The soul of stand-up is offense. You think she’d dare offend anyone? She’s self-censoring before even making it on air, ending up as bland as a show butchered by the censors.”

The once-bubbly workshop fell silent. No one had expected String Bean to lash out like this.

His gaze flicked toward Chu Duxiu as he tilted his chin up. “Heard you studied journalism. Don’t bring that teacher’s pet mentality into stand-up, thinking pleasing mentors is enough. This art lives or dies by the audience—don’t put the cart before the horse.”

Lu Fan fell silent for a few seconds before countering, “I was an audience member long before I became a mentor.”

The confrontation erupted abruptly, like the sharp clang of crossed blades, sending chills down everyone’s spines. On one side stood a veteran comedian who had performed in Yancheng for years, a benchmark for many newcomers; on the other, a fan-favorite from the first season of the show and the translator of several stand-up comedy guidebooks.

Had it not been for The Stand-Up King, String Bean would have outshone Lu Fan in open mic performances. But the show brought attention to Lu Fan’s writing, and her reputation in the industry now rivaled his.

Now, the two stood toe-to-toe, their tension so thick no one dared breathe too loudly.

Chu Duxiu watched String Bean, who refused to yield an inch, and a quiet realization settled in her gut: his words weren’t truly aimed at Lu Fan. They were meant for her—Lu Fan had just been the first to respond, turning it into a clash.

That line—“ thinking pleasing mentors is enough”—might’ve seemed directed at her rapport with Lu Fan, but it also felt like a jab at Xie Shenci’s favor. Add String Bean’s revoked audition eligibility to the mix, and even a fool could guess where his resentment stemmed from.

The workshop’s murmur died as Chu Duxiu’s voice cut through—deceptively light, like a scalpel flicked open.

“You think I don’t dare to offend?”

All this time, she had mostly poked fun at herself—ever since her first bar performance, she’d held back from going too wild, never fully unleashing her edge.

Yet even that somehow drew criticism.

For some reason, a reckless, almost arrogant thought surged in her chest: she’d never liked String Bean’s performances anyway. She refused to believe she was worse than him. In social status? Maybe she’d lose. But in stand-up comedy? She might just win.

String Bean blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Chu Duxiu to engage—let alone with such steady composure. She’d always seemed so mild-mannered, trailing after Lu Fan and the others like a meek follower, the very picture of an easy target.

It left him momentarily unsure: was she genuinely seeking advice, or was there a sharper edge beneath her words?

Nie Feng’s baritone broke the standoff. “Christ, String Bean. Picking on rookies now?”

He couldn’t fathom where String Bean’s sudden venom came from—the man was spitting fire at anyone within reach, scorching whoever crossed his path.

String Bean’s expression darkened. “Must be nice getting recruited,” he muttered.

Nie Feng’s temper ignited. “Spit it out straight,” he snapped, jabbing a finger toward Xie Shenci’s vacant seat. “You didn’t dare breathe a fucking word when he was here. Who’re you trying to piss off now?”

String Bean’s face went rigid.

“Don’t want the show? Then skip the damn training too!” Nie Feng’s voice lashed like a whip. “Save the passive-aggressive bullshit.”

“Alright, my bad.” String Bean blinked at the fury, then slapped his own cheek with performative flair. “Just my big mouth acting up. No hard feelings?”

The insincerity was the last straw. Nie Feng rose, jerking his chin toward the door. “Outside. Now.”

A beat of hesitation—then String Bean followed, shoulders stiff. The workshop door swung shut behind them.

No one heard their words. Neither returned for a long, long time.

Lu Fan clapped her hands, dispersing the tension like smoke. “Alright, that’s a wrap for today. Don’t forget to revise your drafts.”

The drama had erupted and dissolved just as quickly. Trainees began filing out, their murmurs lacing the air.

Wang Nali pulled Chu Duxiu into a bear hug, her grip telegraphing solidarity. “What’s his damage?”

Chu Duxiu, half-smothered, sighed. “Some people exist to piss on parades.”

Scallion kicked a chair leg. “Ignore that loser! Nie Feng’ll rip him a new one.”

“Never thought the ‘veteran’s authority’ playbook still required tantrums,” Chu Duxiu mused, eyeing the exit. “Turns out losing your shit is humanity’s ultimate trump card.”

Scallion scratched his neck. “They go way back, the whole club scene. Brothers-in-arms, y’know? Though…” His voice dipped. “Lately feels more like ‘brothers-on-thin-ice’.”

Nie Feng had built the comedy club from scratch, rallying Yancheng’s starving artists when stages were scarce. But surviving lean times together didn’t guarantee forever. Some bonds fray when the spotlight arrives.

On the way back to campus, Wang Nali and Scallion fussed over Chu Duxiu like worried parents, only relenting when she assured them—for the tenth time—that she was fine.

Their concern warmed her, even as it amused her. The truth was, she’d been showered with kindness since joining the workshop—Xie Shenci’s guidance, Lu Fan’s encouragement, Wang Nali and Scallion’s unwavering support. But life, like a pot of perfectly brewed soup, always seemed to harbor a few rancid ingredients, determined to ruin the flavor at the worst possible moment.

On the subway, Chu Duxiu gripped the handrail, String Bean’s words still echoing in her skull. Between graduation stress and civil service exam prep, the workshop had been her rare escape. Now even that was tainted.

What gave him the right? Was his brand of crass, shock-value humor the true essence of stand-up?

She’d seen his sets. She knew his limits. And that only made the indignation burn hotter.

The more she replayed it, the more it fueled her. By the time she reached her dorm, the anger had crystallized into something sharper—material.

She wrote furiously, fingers flying across the keyboard. Only when the words stared back from the screen did the tension finally uncoil.

At their second workshop, Xie Shenci reviewed the drafts as usual. But when he finished Chu Duxiu’s, he paused. “You’re planning to perform this at the open mic?”

“Yes.”

He studied her, the way one might inspect a suddenly volatile chemical. Even for someone who’d read thousands of scripts, this was uncharted territory. The shift from her usual style was so stark, it begged the question: What the hell happened to you?

It was as if SpongeBob had snapped—one minute a whimsical cartoon, the next, an R-rated nightmare.