Du Xiu Chapter 22

At the Wenxiao Theater, 100 contestants waited backstage, their fates tied to the luck of the draw. Over the next two days, they would step onto the open mic stage, one after another, in a whirlwind of preliminary auditions. Each had been handed a voting keypad at the entrance before taking their seat among the audience—competitors today, judges tomorrow.

The production crew moved with quiet efficiency, cameras already positioned, lenses silently tracking every movement. The air hummed with nervous energy.

Shang Xiaomei crossed her arms, her gaze sweeping over the theater. “I wonder how this will play out,” she murmured.

Beside her, Xie Shenci raised an eyebrow. “No host today?”

“I’ll say a few words to kick things off, but no transitions in between.” She shrugged. “Fifty performers a day—we’re on a tight schedule. A host would just slow things down.”

This wasn’t some polished comedy showcase where a grinning emcee kept the crowd warmed up. The contestants had enough to worry about without forced banter.

Xie Shenci gave a slow nod. Fair enough.

In the audience, Chu Duxiu sat beside Wang Nali and Scallion, acutely aware of their tense posture and growing anxiety. Since she wasn’t performing until the next day, the mental strain on her companions—slated for today—was entirely different.

Wang Nali stood up. “I’m heading backstage to wait for my turn.”

Chu Duxiu cheered, “Go get ’em—!”

Onstage, one contestant after another delivered their sets. After each five-minute performance, a broadcast reminder would prompt the audience to cast their votes via keypads.

When Wang Nali finally stepped into the spotlight, Chu Duxiu clapped wildly, rallying support for her friend.

Wang Nali, scheduled early in the lineup, sailed through her routine smoothly and returned in high spirits after a solid reception.

It was still the opening phase of the preliminaries, and the contestants remained fully engaged, their attention riveted to the performances onstage.

Two hours in, the energy in the room had noticeably dipped. The performers were running out of steam, and the audience—now desensitized to average jokes—could no longer muster laughter.

The production team had called for a break midway, hoping to reset the crowd’s mood, but the effort did little to help. Comedy connoisseurs were harder to amuse than regular folks. They knew exactly where the punchlines were buried, making it nearly impossible to catch them off guard with “expectation subversion.”

As a result, they paid close attention to established acts but showed little interest in newcomers—unless the performer exploded onto the stage with an instant crowd-pleaser or something provocative enough to grab attention.

Scallion, slotted at the very end of Day One, managed a modest hit with a well-polished set.

When the contestants returned for Day Two of the preliminaries, the moment they stepped into Wenxiao Theater, they could sense a shift in the audience’s vibe.

The reasons were simple: First, many had already performed, unburdened by nerves and free to vote without pressure. Second—today’s lineup was stacked. With heavyweights like Cheng Junhua and reigning champion Bei He taking the stage, the competition for first place had suddenly become anyone’s game.

Even before the preliminary round officially began, the theater was already buzzing with excitement.

“It’s the battle of the gods today!”

“The big shots are here—gotta watch closely before I get eliminated and go home.”

“Ha! Are we here for a comedy show or a VIP concert experience?”

The tables had turned. Today, it was Chu Duxiu’s turn to take the stage, while Wang Nali and Scallion, now free from nerves, cheered her on from the sidelines.

Moments later, reigning champion Bei He dashed onto the stage. The moment he appeared, the crowd erupted in cheers. Gratefully waving, he said, “Thank you, thank you, everyone! Hello, I’m Bei He!”

Someone in the audience immediately shouted, “Go for it!”

Scallion watched the lively scene and sighed. “Veterans really are on another level.”

Though newcomers like Scallion and Chu Duxiu had gained some recognition in Yancheng, their fame paled in comparison to nationally established acts like Bei He.

Chu Duxiu kept her eyes fixed on the stage, assessing the atmosphere. She had prepared two sets—one was a well-polished routine honed through countless open mics, while the other was a brand-new piece written specifically for the preliminaries.

Since the new material hadn’t been tested, she planned to adapt on the fly, choosing between playing it safe or going all out based on the audience’s energy.

To her surprise, Bei He—the champion of the first season—delivered a fresh set, but the quality was surprisingly mediocre.

“He’s slacking! Absolutely slacking!” Shang Xiaomei exclaimed, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Why would he write such a half-baked new bit for this!?”

Xie Shenci analyzed coolly, “He’s probably afraid of ranking in the top three. If he used his stronger material here, it’d get exposed early and become unusable for the actual competition.”

The Stand-Up King was a high-stakes battle, and as a veteran of the first season, Bei He clearly wanted to conserve his best jokes, unwilling to waste them in the preliminaries.

“Bei He, you sly fox—” Shang Xiaomei shook her head in disbelief. “This has ‘last-minute draft’ written all over it!”

Xie Shenci shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. His reputation alone will carry him through this round.”

As soon as his set ended, Bei He darted back to his seat like a streak of smoke, only to be met with playful jeers from his fellow comedians. His friends, thoroughly exasperated by his blatant sandbagging, punctuated their laughter with half-hearted punches—a mix of mock outrage and camaraderie.

Bei He’s unexpected retreat seemed to ease Cheng Junhua’s tension. Seated in the front row, the veteran comic visibly relaxed, his posture loosening from its earlier battle-ready rigidity.

After all, speculation had been rife about which of the two heavyweights would clinch the top spot. For Cheng Junhua—a seasoned name in the industry—losing outright in the opening round would’ve been a bruise to his pride.

Before long, the announcement of Cheng Junhua’s name and slot number sent a tsunami-like stir through the theater.

Dozens of contestants leapt to their feet, erupting into thunderous applause before he’d even taken the stage—a standing ovation for the legend.

Nie Feng muttered, “Finally.”

“Terrifying presence,” Scallion whispered in awe. “They’re applauding before he’s even started.”

When Cheng Junhua took the stage, there was an unassuming gentleness about him—his tone soft and unhurried, carrying the warm lilt of a southern accent. “Hello everyone, I’m Cheng Junhua.”

The applause that followed was thunderous, roaring through the theater like a tidal wave.

Cheng Junhua opted for a tried-and-true bit, a five-minute excerpt from one of his full-length specials, delivered with the same effortless authenticity as the original.

Even though many in the audience already knew the material by heart, they still doubled over with laughter, completely disarmed by the sheer mastery of a true veteran.

Wang Nali blinked in surprise. “The joke density in his set isn’t even that high…”

“That’s because it wasn’t written as a standalone five-minute bit—it’s carved out of a longer special, so the structure isn’t as tight,” Chu Duxiu observed. “A lot of the callbacks got lost in the edit.”

“Terrifying,” Scallion murmured in awe. “But his stagecraft is on another level. The way he performs it—even if you’ve heard the jokes before, they still hit just as hard.”

Chu Duxiu nodded.

Performance was the perfect fusion of stand-up material and improvisational delivery—hinging entirely on the comedian’s physicality and presence.

The same script could land entirely differently depending on who performed it. Cheng Junhua’s execution was practically transcendent, honed through countless open mics and full-length specials. It was a mastery no rookie could replicate overnight—a signature style entirely his own.

But this wasn’t a solo show. It was still the preliminaries. And that meant she might just have a shot.

After an agonizing wait, Chu Duxiu’s number was finally called. With encouragement from her friends, she stepped onto the stage.

Below, the Yancheng comedians rallied behind her with loud cheers. Nie Feng and the others waved enthusiastically, while Lu Fan—seated among the Haicheng performers—clapped in eager anticipation.

“Here we go, Xiu’er, Xiu’er!” Shang Xiaomei crowed, grinning. “My nepotism pick!”

Xie Shenci shot her a sidelong glance: “?”

On stage, Chu Duxiu held the microphone as she strolled to the center, stopping in front of the bar stool.

Under the spotlight, her expression was relaxed and natural—calm and composed the moment she stepped up. With effortless ease, she began, “Hello everyone, I’m Chu Duxiu, a college student currently preparing for the civil service exams. Recently, I’ve noticed something: things that seem easy to get into always turn out to be full of hidden trials. Take this stand-up comedy competition, for example—they let in a hundred people just for the preliminaries.”

“Ohhh—”

The moment she said it, the other comedians perked up, dragging out the sound in collective amusement. They recognized an on-the-spot jab when they heard one—and couldn’t resist stealing glances at Director Shang and President Xie’s reactions.

“Then the director waves her hand and says, ‘Compete! Win, and you’re a contestant; lose, and you’re part of the audience.’” She shrugged helplessly. “Either way, they’ve already got us here. ‘Heaven births talents—surely they’ll be of use.’”

A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd.

“Director Shang, she’s roasting you—” someone called out, stirring the pot with glee. “You can’t let that slide!”

Shang Xiaomei froze for a second—then burst into laughter, clapping a hand over her face as if to hide her grin. Only her eyes remained visible, still fixed intently on the stage.

“But things that start off difficult? Those end up being a breeze later on. Like when people nag you to take the civil service exam—‘Just get through it, and life will be smooth sailing.’” Chu Duxiu continued. “Then I look at those job postings with a 300:1 applicant-to-position ratio—some even cherry-picking one out of three thousand candidates—and suddenly I’m reminded of Sun Wukong.”

“He had to master seventy-two transformations, steal the Ruyi Jingu Bang, and even tamper with the Book of Life and Death just to land a gig as the Heavenly Stablemaster—a government position with benefits. And who am I to compare?”

With a dramatic jab at the stage, she declared, “That monkey could somersault 54,000 kilometers in one flip, while I had to take a high-speed train just to get here for this competition!”

The crowd of contestants erupted in laughter, the energy in the room quickly heating up as they reveled in her delivery.

Wang Nali marveled, “Her pacing’s razor-sharp.”

“Is this new?” Scallion scratched his head, baffled. “Or is she improvising? I’ve never heard this bit before.”

Tilting her head slightly, Chu Duxiu continued, “And even if you pass the exam, it’s not like life gets easier. You’re still the newbie, surrounded by veterans who dump all the grunt work on you. You’d feel cheated—like nothing’s really changed, right?”

“Then people around you start saying, ‘Just endure it. Once you’re old, it’ll be easy. Or work hard for a promotion, and you won’t have to do the menial tasks anymore.’”

Her eyes sparkled as she declared brightly, “Every time I hear that, I think—oh, this plot’s familiar! Sun Wukong had to beat Heavenly King Li and Nezha before the Jade Emperor finally gave him the title ‘Great Sage Equal to Heaven’! That’s just a workplace promotion in disguise!”

Lu Fan couldn’t help but cover her mouth, stifling a laugh.

Chu Duxiu rolled up her sleeves with mock determination. “Alright then, Section Chief Wang, Director Li—let’s have ourselves a little… performance review.”

“Rest assured, as long as the workload gets distributed fairly—and not dumped entirely on me—I promise things won’t escalate to ‘Havoc in Heaven’ levels!”

The theater erupted in laughter like a dam breaking—perhaps because her faux outrage resonated with contestants drowning in preliminary-round anxiety. For once, no one held back their amusement.

Scallion bounced his leg excitedly. “She’s locked in. This could actually kill.”

“Our forefather Sun Wukong taught us that in certain workplaces, you’ve got to act unhinged just to survive,” Chu Duxiu deadpanned. “Also, stop peddling that ‘just pass the civil service exam and life’s smooth sailing’ nonsense—unless you want karma hitting you like 100,000 heavenly soldiers.”

“Then there are things with low barriers to entry but brutal follow-through—like this season of our show. Before the competition, the application form actually asked, ‘Why do you want to join The Stand-Up King?’”

Chu Duxiu spread her hands in mock confusion. “I was like… wait, didn’t you invite me here?”

From the audience, Bei He slapped his thigh in approval, calling toward the producers’ direction with gleeful schadenfreude. “Yeah! Didn’t you make us come!?”

“My journey into stand-up comedy was like getting stopped by a gym flyer promoter—you wouldn’t believe how many follow-up questions they cram into a 100-meter stretch.” She launched into a spot-on impersonation of a street hustler:

“They spot you and pounce—”

“Ever tried stand-up comedy?”
“No thanks.”
“Open mics? Training camps? Any interest?”
“Nope, nope.”
“Want humor? Want joy?”
“Hard pass.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd like rolling waves.

“Every block you walk, you run into that same person—like human bubblegum, stuck to you for life. Finally, you cave and join the gym,” Chu Duxiu continued. “They’re all enthusiasm: ‘You’re a natural! Such talent! Keep at it and you’ll go far! Oh, and there’s a membership discount today!’”

Then, with a subtle eyebrow raise, her tone shifted. “But the moment you sign that contract—your workouts get stuck in contract hell.”

“Just like how, the second you submit this competition application—the rules suddenly turn ruthless.”

The contestants doubled over laughing, applauding in rueful recognition. Other topics might’ve failed to grab everyone’s attention, but the preliminaries’ cutthroat setup? Unavoidable trauma bonding.

Cheng Junhua leaned to his neighbor. “Sharp. She knows exactly who’s voting—tailored this whole set for them.”

Stand-up comics develop a sixth sense—reading rooms for improv, sniffing out crowd psychology. Chu Duxiu had clocked that her judges were fellow contestants, and weaponized their shared pain into the perfect punchlines.

Chu Duxiu deadpanned. “Our competition rules are so absurd, I’m convinced they’ve combined the difficulty of civil service exams and the college entrance exam—that’s how brutal this is.”

“Not sure if anyone’s taken those ‘exam prep’ courses—the ones advertising ‘Guaranteed employment after one month!’ mainly teaching administrative aptitude tests and essay writing.” She adopted a mock-educational tone. “Some are scams, but some teachers are legit geniuses. They’ve cracked the exam code, explain concepts so clearly, you gain instant confidence drilling practice questions.”

“Then on exam day, you walk in and—bam!—your teacher is sitting in the same test hall. Applying for the exact same position as you.”

Chu Duxiu abruptly froze. Onstage, she furrowed her brows in exaggerated despair, arms splayed like a living “???” meme.

“I don’t know how you’d react, but I just yelled—”

Gripping the mic, she suddenly bounced toward Lu Fan’s direction and shrieked. “Ms. Lu! My radiant, magnificent Ms. Lu—!”

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?!”

“You taught me comedy with such dedication… JUST FOR THIS MOMENT OF BETRAYAL!?”

Her theatrical anguish detonated the room. Even the training camp alumni were howling, slapping their knees.

Lu Fan, now the bullseye of the bit, curled into a shrimp-like crouch from laughter. Nearby Haicheng comedians joined the chaos, chanting “Ms. Lu!” like a hype squad.

Half-annoyed, half-delighted, Lu Fan yelled back, “At least imitate her properly! She said ‘radiant, magnificent’!”

Chu Duxiu’s set had become a full-blown riot, the energy rocketing toward nuclear levels.

“But that’s not even the cruelest part. As we all know, China’s stand-up comedy history is relatively short—but it’s already produced its share of legendary figures.”

Chu Duxiu shook her head in numb disbelief, gesturing toward the front row. “You think taking an exam with your teacher is bad? Try sitting the college entrance exam alongside a literal textbook legend.”

Cheng Junhua pointed at himself, amused. “Me?”

“I open the textbook and see: ‘Mr. Cheng Junhua, one of the earliest stand-up comedians to perform on national television, a pivotal figure in bringing the art form to mainstream audiences.’ And I think—what does this mean?”

With deadpan gravitas, she declared, “It’s like studying Li Bai’s ‘Dreaming of Skyland Ascension’ in class… only to find Li Bai himself sitting next to you during the poetry analysis section of the college entrance exam.”

“‘Immortals gather like tangled hemp’—meaning celestial beings are packed as densely as my competition odds. I’ve gone completely numb.”

“‘Startled, my soul trembles; I wake with a gasp’—that’s the moment my stand-up dreams shatter, leaving me to sigh at the heavens.”

She threw her head back in a mock wolf howl. “Awooo—!”

The room detonated. Comedians roared with laughter, some even leaping to their feet, waving their arms in ovation.

No one had anticipated this literary twist. The catharsis was visceral—weeks of competitive pressure erupting into pure, unfiltered joy.

Scallion wailed. “If I could redo my life—I’d be Li Bai!”