Chu Duxiu was stunned when she saw the bag of heat packs. Flustered, she hurriedly took it and stammered like a nervous wreck, “Th-thank you, Mr. Xie.”
For a moment, she thought Xie Shenci really knew how to treat people. No wonder he could be a boss—visiting three times like Zhuge Liang, respecting talent regardless of status—anyone would be impressed.
Good men and good bosses are like ghosts. Everyone says they exist, but no one’s actually seen one.
Well, today she saw a ghost.
Xie Shenci asked, “Not used to Haicheng’s weather?”
“Yeah, it feels kind of damp and chilly.” Chu Duxiu tore open the heat pack wrapper, stuck two onto her arms, and added, “I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”
The two exchanged a few brief words at the door, which made Chu Duxiu a little nervous. She had nothing against Xie Shenci and knew he meant well, but she also understood the importance of avoiding appearances of impropriety and how gossip spreads.
Even though they’d had a pleasant conversation at the bar, that wasn’t a formal setting—it allowed for a more casual, friendly interaction. But now, with the show about to start filming, frequent contact seemed inappropriate. It was like a university student chatting warmly with a professor right before an exam—regardless of the topic, if other students saw it, they’d likely get the wrong impression.
Fortunately, Xie Shenci had a good sense of boundaries. After asking a couple of questions, he knocked on the door and walked straight into the private room to greet the others.
Shang Xiaomei, seeing him enter, exclaimed, “Weren’t you supposed to have something on tonight?”
Xie Shenci replied, “Just dropping by to check in.”
The room instantly lit up with laughter and teasing.
“Mr. Xie still has us in his heart!”
“Nice! All of us together might just be worth as much as one of Mr. Xie’s social calls!”
Xie Shenci chatted briefly with the actors, then strolled around the room and said to Shang Xiaomei, “In a bit, arrange a car—those who want to rest can head back first, and the rest can stay and keep chatting.”
“Got it, no problem,” Shang Xiaomei replied with a smile. “That actually works—this way, no one disturbs anyone else. I’m sure some people are tired from the ride but just too polite to say so.”
Xie Shenci had come unexpectedly, and left just as quickly. After greeting everyone and making arrangements, he returned to his own private room.
Thanks to his suggestion, a few people stood up, saying they’d like to go back to their rooms and rest. With more people, it was easier to act. After checking with the two neighboring rooms, Director Shang quickly gathered enough actors to fill a car and sent them back to the hotel, while the more energetic ones stayed behind to hang out.
“Perfect, we’ll go with the group,” Wang Nali said happily. “I could tell a lot of people were tired but didn’t want to say anything out of pride.”
Chu Duxiu completely understood that feeling—leaving a lively gathering can feel like pouring cold water over it, and no one wants to be the first to do it. But with Mr. Xie’s deadpan demeanor, he was perfect for the job. No one would fault him for it—in fact, they’d think it was entirely appropriate.
Soon, the vehicle pulled up in front of the hotel and dropped off some of the cast.
Staff on the bus reminded them that if anyone needed it, bottled water and heat packs were available at the front desk—prepared in advance by the production team but not yet distributed.
After getting off, Chu Duxiu and Wang Nali slipped out to a nearby convenience store. They bought hot water bottles and brown sugar ginger tea, then returned to their room, turned on the air conditioning, gulped down the spicy-sweet tea, and—after a warm shower—crawled under the soft covers, falling into a cozy, heated sleep.
The next day, Chu Duxiu woke up feeling refreshed and full of energy—it finally felt like she was alive again. Shaking off the fatigue, she was gradually getting used to Haicheng’s weather. Bundled up in a thick, cozy sweater, she headed out, not forgetting to stick on another heat patch.
The production team had already issued a notice in advance: the morning was for the contestants to rest, while in the afternoon, everyone would gather at Wenxiao Theatre for the official start of the first round of preliminaries.
Inside Wenxiao Theatre, a standing microphone was placed in front of a red curtain, with a tall stool positioned at the center of the stage. The stage here was smaller than usual—just enough for one or two people to stand on. The audience seating wrapped around the stage in a semicircle, rising row by row so those in the back could see clearly.
The ceiling wasn’t too high either, giving the space a snug, enclosed feel—standing on stage, one would feel surrounded.
Chu Duxiu and Wang Nali walked into the theatre together and immediately spotted Scallion already seated. The three of them sat side by side, as if transported back to their training camp days.
Wang Nali said, “You’re here so early.”
“Nervous. Excited. I couldn’t sleep at all last night,” Scallion fidgeted. “I’m still a newbie—basically pre-chopped ingredients—of course I had to get here early.”
Chu Duxiu replied, “…Are we the garlic, ginger, and scallions on a hot pot condiment table?”
Cameras were set up in every corner of the theatre, with staff positioned behind each one. Dressed in black and wearing work badges, they moved busily back and forth in the dim lighting.
A short while later, the 100 contestants arrived one after another. Some actors drew gasps of admiration the moment they appeared.
“Lu Fan!”
“Ms. Lu—!”
Lu Fan was wearing a light-colored thick wool coat. As soon as she entered, she saw a few familiar actors, gave a shy wave, and found herself a seat among the Haicheng performers. As the runner-up of season one, she knew quite a few people and had built up a modest online following.
The wave of actors that followed were mostly from Haicheng, and it seemed like they had come together. Many were familiar faces from the show—including the previous season’s champion.
The man wore a denim jacket over a white shirt, with his hair slicked back slightly with gel. He bounced as he walked, like an overgrown boy full of energy, literally hopping his way into the theatre. It was last season’s champion, Bei He.
“Brother Bei is here! Brother Bei is here!”
“The champ has arrived—make way, everyone—!”
Faced with all the hype, Bei He quickly clasped his hands together and said in a flustered tone, “Thank you, brothers and sisters! Much love!”
“Heavens, are all the heavyweights from last season really showing up this early?” Wang Nali was stunned by the lively scene. “I thought they’d appear later in the show. You can’t even play chess like this—opening move and the rook’s already got the king in check!”
Chu Duxiu said serenely, “Forget it, let’s just lie flat and go with the flow.”
“We really are the garlic-ginger-scallion combo now,” Scallion complained. “Rushed over here, only to get checkmated right away. Whatever, I’m lying flat too.”
The peak moment of the scene, without a doubt, was when Cheng Junhua entered. Amid cheers and applause, he waved awkwardly, looked around in confusion, and finally took a seat in the front row, tucked away in a corner—the area designated for contestants.
That one move instantly sent the entire theatre into an uproar. Even the veteran performers couldn’t sit still anymore, as if they could feel the sheer absurdity of it all. The noise rose to a fever pitch, threatening to blow the roof off.
Lu Fan glanced at the person next to her and quietly asked, “Is he really a contestant?”
“Wah—” Bei He shrank into himself, staring at the person in the front row and waving his hand in mock defeat. “Alright, fine, I get why they put me in the preliminaries now. Even the big shots have to compete in the first round—I’m nothing, absolutely nothing!”
Cheng Junhua was one of the most influential stand-up comedians in China in recent years. Many newcomers were probably first inspired by watching his videos. Compared to him, their time spent writing or performing on stage was barely a fraction. His participation as a contestant felt like “smurfing”—like he was steamrolling through the rookie pool without mercy.
Chu Duxiu muttered, “Laughing gas turned into a warhorse.”
Scallion added, “Truly terrifying.”
All 100 contestants had now gathered and were seated in Wenxiao Theatre.
Not long after, Xie Shenci and Shang Xiaomei appeared, and the previously chaotic scene quickly quieted down. Shang Xiaomei took a microphone from someone nearby and reached out to pass it to the silent Xie Shenci, only for him to raise a hand and gesture for her to speak instead.
Only then did Shang Xiaomei relax. No longer concerned with Xie Shenci beside her, she turned around and began to formally host the proceedings.
“Welcome, everyone, to Wenxiao Theatre,” Shang Xiaomei said with a smile. “Some of the Haicheng performers may already be familiar with this place. It was renovated by Shanle Culture and is the first theatre in the city dedicated entirely to stand-up comedy. Everything—from the stage to the audience seating—was designed to recreate the feel of an open mic night, making it an ideal space for performances.”
“The theatre regularly hosts shows as well as training sessions, and our preliminary round will also take place here.”
The contestants looked around, observing their surroundings. Though compact, the theatre was fully equipped and impressively functional, with excellent facilities.
Shang Xiaomei raised her arm and announced loudly, “First, I have some good news. After a year of development, more and more people have taken an interest in stand-up comedy. Our once-sparse industry has finally gathered a full hundred contestants—far beyond the scale of the first season of The Stand-Up King!”
The room erupted into cheers and applause, filled with excitement and joy.
However, just as the celebration quieted down, Shang Xiaomei calmly dropped another piece of news.
“Of course, there’s also some bad news. Due to venue limitations, only contestants who pass the preliminary round will be able to perform in the studio and appear in the first official episode,” she said steadily. “The preliminary round will select fifty contestants to move on to the next stage—the breakout round.”
The moment those words were spoken, a stir spread through the audience. A 50% elimination rate sparked waves of murmurs and discussion.
Season one hadn’t been nearly as cutthroat—it had just a dozen or so contestants cycling through, with the final rankings determined by the cumulative score across all episodes.
Nie Feng murmured thoughtfully, “Looks like there really are a lot of contestants this time.”
Bei He, finding the whole thing absurd, whispered to someone nearby with a bitter smile, “Has our industry become this extravagant? Just blindly cutting people down like this?”
Veteran performers were stunned; the newcomers were already numb.
Wang Nali joked, “Here’s some good news: you’re still alive.”
Scallion added, “And the bad news is: you’re about to die.”
Chu Duxiu chimed in, “The bad news isn’t that we’re dead—it’s that we’re currently half-dead.”
Shang Xiaomei continued her briefing, “The preliminaries will be conducted in an open mic format. Each person gets five minutes, and the theme is up to you. All 100 contestants will vote live. If you think someone is funny, just press the button. We’ll rank the performers by number of votes, and the top fifty will move on.”
“The top three ranked performers will get extra exposure. Their audition videos will be released along with the teaser trailer as part of the show’s promotion, and they’ll receive commercial partnership opportunities.”
Commercial work was undeniably one of the main sources of income for comedians. In the first season, Lu Fan had ranked lower than Bei He, but thanks to strong writing and online popularity, she ended up earning just as much as him.
That’s the main reason everyone had signed up for the show—if you managed to boost your visibility, even among performers of similar talent, the gap in career growth could become dramatic.
“Considering everyone’s performance readiness, the preliminaries will take place tomorrow and the day after,” Shang Xiaomei said. “The performance order and dates will be determined by drawing lots, so please work with the staff now to draw yours.”
Everyone drew lots in order and then left Wenxiao Theatre, quickly getting to work on their preparations.
Wang Nali looked at the number in her hand and asked curiously, “What day are you on?”
Chu Duxiu replied, “The day after tomorrow.”
There were 100 contestants in total—numbers 1 to 50 were scheduled for tomorrow, and 51 to 100 for the day after. Even with just five minutes per person, listening to 50 sets in a single day could easily lead to joke fatigue, leaving the audience emotionally numb from overstimulation.
Chu Duxiu felt a tinge of concern. She had a feeling the preliminary round would become extreme—either a routine would have to be shockingly brilliant and far ahead of the pack, or the performer would need strong name recognition and a loyal following. Otherwise, in the intense environment of open mic after open mic, it would be hard for people to remember every performance.
In a sense, the preliminary round was as brutal as the actual show. Audiences only remembered the punchlines—dull or mediocre sets left no impression and were forgotten the moment the video ended.
“I’m on tomorrow with Nali,” Scallion said with a jolt. “I heard the day after tomorrow is stacked with heavyweights—Bei He and Cheng Junhua are both on then.”
Being scheduled for the day after tomorrow had both pros and cons for Chu Duxiu. On the upside, the presence of big names would draw attention and ensure the audience was fully engaged. On the downside, getting compared to top-tier acts could hurt her chances—strong performances from people like Cheng Junhua might make even a solid newcomer’s set seem forgettable by contrast.
Wang Nali comforted her, “In the end, it’s all about the vote count ranking. As long as you make it into the top fifty, it doesn’t really matter which day you perform.”
She believed Chu Duxiu’s talent was clear, and no matter how much her votes might be suppressed, she’d definitely make the top fifty.
“Exactly. The videos of the top three can’t be used in the show anymore,” Scallion said, trying to psych herself up with a bit of positive thinking, lifting her chin slightly. “We don’t care about that—we just need to survive the start!”
Wang Nali was scheduled to perform tomorrow and stayed in the theatre to get used to the environment, while Chu Duxiu headed back to the hotel first.
In her room, Chu Duxiu stared at the computer screen, feeling conflicted inside—unsure whether she should write a new routine. Her hands rested on the keyboard, but she hadn’t typed a single thing for a long time.
In reality, it was hard to make the other contestants laugh. Not to mention they were all competitors, even actors who got along well had their routines memorized by heart. It was like her and Scallion, who spent every day holed up in bars; there were basically no secrets between them, and they occasionally gave each other suggestions.
Although Scallion was right—sticking to old material was enough to advance—Chu Duxiu felt a little unwilling to play it safe for her first performance in Haicheng.
Sure, she could scrape through the preliminaries and earn the title of “rookie king.” Many people from the training camp in Yancheng would probably vote for their classmates out of loyalty.
But did she travel all this way just to coast through the competition?
Chu Duxiu admitted she’d cut corners in many things, but she didn’t want to do that with stand-up comedy.
She knew her own flaws well. Once she opened that door, it would be impossible to stop—she’d develop the mindset of “just trying to get by,” and laziness would instantly take hold.
She was an ordinary person with weak willpower. Given the chance to slide, she’d slip all the way down before she knew it—maybe even losing the ability to maintain an average level.
If all she wanted was to coast, she could do that anywhere. Maybe there was no need to come here at all.
