Bei He sighed and said, “This is really intense. So much content packed into less than five minutes.”
“Too good at mixing and presenting.”
One way to enhance the effect of a comedy bit is through mixing—finding connections between two seemingly unrelated topics. Mixing is almost always accompanied by presentation.
In a commercial show or a special performance, Chu Duxiu could play with a mix several times, easily stretching it to five minutes with just one or two blends. But now, it was forcibly compressed, instantly driving up the energy of the live audience.
It was no less intense than a machine gun firing—there’s always a bullet that hits its mark. Performing like this for a full hour would be too overwhelming, but for just five minutes, it’s perfect.
“Of course, don’t be intimidated. Even if Li Bai is the original author of Dreaming of Skyland Ascension, we might still outperform him in an exam,” Chu Duxiu lowered her head and said, “Because Li Bai was a great poet, not a great high school senior.”
“All those timeless poems he wrote are useless—he couldn’t possibly decipher the minds of the college entrance exam question-setters!”
Chu Duxiu raised one hand, pretending to hold a scroll, and performed. “Li Bai, sitting in the exam hall clutching his own poem, would mutter to himself, ‘Did I really express that many thoughts and emotions in this poem?’”
“You see, if the questions are ruthless enough, even Li Bai would get confused.”
“And we’re no different. When Mr. Cheng heard the rules, he probably thought, ‘Only five minutes? Can that even count as stand-up comedy!?’”
Cheng Junhua burst into laughter upon hearing this.
The audience around them clapped enthusiastically in agreement, even deliberately jeering at Director Shang and the others in protest—five minutes was far too strict, forcing them to cut and compress full-length bits.
“The show gathered performers from all over the country and had us vote for each other, listening to each other’s sets and critiquing one another’s humor. To be honest, forget about understanding the jokes—I couldn’t even understand what they were saying.”
“When I first arrived at the hotel and was checking in at the front desk, I overheard a southern actor calling home to say he was safe,” Chu Duxiu said helplessly. “Not that I was eavesdropping—not that it would’ve helped anyway. It was like scrolling through your phone on the subway—his dialect came with built-in privacy mode.”
The contestants in the audience smirked.
“In that moment, you suddenly realize why wuxia novels only ever have ‘Mount Hua Sword Summit’ competitions. Martial arts and swordsmanship have a relatively high barrier to entry.”
“Nobody ever holds a ‘Mount Hua Debate Summit.’ You’ve got to let fists do the talking, not words—otherwise, the whole thing would just look ridiculous.”
Chu Duxiu adjusted her stance, raising her left hand like holding a sword. “Picture this—martial artists from across the land gather atop the mountain. The Emei Sect representative appears, clad in heroic attire, gripping her sword, only to bark in dialect: ‘Silly melon-child yappin’ so much—think yer funnier than me?!’”
“Then the Tianshan Sect disciple shows up chanting ‘Lamb skewers, lamb skewers—’” She suddenly crouched, mimicking fanning a grill with bizarre mouth sounds: “RRRRR—”
“Next, the Divine Dragon Cult storms in yelling: ‘Dafuq you dumb-dumb tryin’ to pull?!’”
“Then they all turn to me: ‘And you are?’”
“Oh, I’m just a civil service exam candidate. Name’s Chu Duxiu.”
“Which sect?”
“…The Beggars’ Gang.”
She suddenly leapt up in mock despair. “Compare WHAT? How’re we judging humor when we don’t even speak the same dialect? Might as well just SWORD FIGHT!”
The triple-rule structure capped with a subversion reignited the roaring laughter just as the energy began to dip. Front-row contestants were already doubled over, collapsing onto each other while still clapping, recognizing the bit’s brutal truth about competition.
“Friendship first, contest second. Thank you, I’m Chu Duxiu!”
The theater erupted in uproarious cheers.
Applause, shouts, and whistles set the entire crowd ablaze with excitement.
Chu Duxiu smoothly made her exit in the midst of the fervor, darting back to her seat in a flash, finally allowing herself to relax.
Shang Xiaomei remarked in admiration, “Now that’s someone who came here to compete.”
Unlike other contestants who recycled old material or hastily threw together half-baked jokes, Chu Duxiu had managed to electrify the room with fresh content—a feat far from easy. Without the trial-and-error of open mics, whether a punchline would land relied entirely on a performer’s creative intuition and experience.
For comedians, the hardest moments come without an audience, left in limbo, unsure of what lies ahead.
As the laughter subsided, the other competitors descended into chaos, some even pacing restlessly, stunned by the newcomer’s performance.
“Terrifying. That raw, shred-everything-in-your-path energy of a rookie!”
“Ms. Lu, this is all your fault—” someone joked, shoving Lu Fan playfully. “You trained this opponent—she even name-dropped you in her set!”
“I won last season’s championship, yet I didn’t even rate a mention in her jokes,” Bei He lamented with a sigh. “She only acknowledges Ms. Lu and the bigshot Cheng.”
Lu Fan, tangled in the playful scuffle, laughed and shot back, “Don’t blame me—you’re the ones slacking off!”
Meanwhile, Scallion and Wang Nali crowded around Chu Duxiu, their faces alight with excitement as they showered her with praise.
Xiao Cong materialized at her side, eyes gleaming. “Holy hell, you just weaponized stand-up.”
Wang Nali fanned herself with a script. “At this rate, you might as well crown yourself the ‘Great Sage Equal to Heaven.’’”
“Whatever happens now, the pilgrimage’s over,” Chu Duxiu declared dramatically, her mind still buzzing from the adrenaline even as her limbs went limp with post-performance exhaustion. She slumped back into her seat. “I’m spent. Enlightened. Officially retired.”
That kind of energy burn was unsustainable—in a regular gig or full-length show, she couldn’t afford to go that hard. But for a competition? All bets were off.
“Shoulder rubs for the queen,” Scallion offered, miming a gentle pounding in the air without actually touching her.
“Leg massage for the queen,” Wang Nali echoed, copying the pretend pampering.
The preliminary rounds continued, and with established stars like Cheng Junhua and Bei He taking the stage today, most ordinary comedians struggled to hold their own. The sudden emergence of dark horse Chu Duxiu only intensified the competition, turning the battlefield increasingly unpredictable, thick with tension and brutal in its intensity.
Before long, all 100 contestants had finished their performances.
A collective sigh of relief swept through the group as everyone relaxed into unrestrained chatter, fantasizing about post-elimination travel plans. Anxiety and dread had evaporated, replaced by a kind of reckless abandon—like students tossing aside exam worries right before results drop, choosing instead to live in the moment.
Once the votes were tallied, Xie Shenci and Shang Xiaomei reappeared onstage to announce the results.
“Thank you all for two full days of passionate performances, breathing life into our Wenxiao Theater,” Shang Xiaomei said with a smile. “Now, let me reveal the preliminary round rankings—starting with the top three highest-voted open mic performances.”
The next moment, the electronic screens flanking the stage lit up with a dramatic boom, displaying the scores: 89, 87, 81. But the names attached to those numbers remained hidden for now.
“Whoa—”
No one had expected the black walls to transform into screens. Contestants craned their necks, marveling at the theater’s hidden tech.
Wang Nali blinked. “This place is next-level. I didn’t even realize there were screens on the sides.”
“Director Shang must have a professional reflex,” Chu Duxiu remarked. “Even for a non-televised preliminary round, announcing results feels like a variety show.”
“Are these the top three scores?” Scallion’s eyes widened. “Damn, everyone’s ruthless—even the first-place act had 11 people who didn’t vote for them. How low must the others be?”
With 100 contestants in total, each voter could only cast a ballot if they found a performance genuinely funny. The math spoke for itself: if third place only got 81 votes, the rest had to be brutal.
Wang Nali groaned. “I’ll be lucky to pass at all.”
“First, let’s announce third place—81 votes in the preliminary round…” Shang Xiaomei held the microphone and turned toward the screen. “Bei He.”
The name on the third line of the screen was revealed—none other than last season’s champion, Bei He.
A murmur rippled through the audience. Nie Feng and others exchanged whispers, commenting, “That’s a bit high.”
“Well, he’s got a built-in fanbase. Some people probably just voted for him out of habit without really listening.”
Bei He himself looked like he wanted to sink through the floor, barely resisting the urge to cover his face as he walked up to accept his ranking sheet from Shang Xiaomei.
She casually offered him the mic. “Come on, Bei He, third place—no words for us?”
“No, no… nothing to say,” he stammered, waving her off with an awkward but polite smile before snatching the sheet and bolting offstage like a man fleeing public execution.
The Haicheng comedians jeered from the audience: “Boooo—”
They all knew Bei He had coasted through the preliminaries, and now they ruthlessly rubbed salt in the wound. For a set like that to rank so high? Even they felt secondhand embarrassment.
Bei He, clearly aware of his misstep, flashed his crew an appeasing grin and let them rough him up the moment he was offstage.
Shang Xiaomei announced, “Next up is second place—Chu Duxiu, with 87 votes in the preliminary round.”
Unlike the sarcastic jeers from the Haicheng comedians, the Yancheng performers erupted in an instant wave of exhilaration, their cheers surging like a tidal wave.
Wang Nali and Scallion were even more thrilled than the winner herself, pushing Chu Duxiu toward the stage from both sides, their explosive excitement nearly deafening the honoree.
Chu Duxiu, feeling like she’d been hit by a pie falling from the sky, stumbled toward the stage in a daze—only to take a wrong turn the first time, getting stuck halfway and looking around in confusion. Unfamiliar with the theater’s seating layout, she only then realized one side was blocked by a railing, making it impossible to reach the stage.
Lu Fan whispered urgently, “That way—go that way!”
Chu Duxiu was utterly bewildered.
Onstage, Xie Shenci noticed her spinning in place and gestured toward the other pathway, finally steering her back on track.
Shang Xiaomei handed her the ranking sheet with a warm smile. “Too nervous?”
Chu Duxiu ducked her head slightly, embarrassed. “Sorry, this competition’s backed me into a corner.”
The contestants burst into laughter, clearly unfazed by her flustered moment—if anything, it felt like an extension of her set.
Shang Xiaomei offered the mic. “Duxiu, a few words?”
Chu Duxiu peeked at Director Shang before mumbling, “I’ve already said everything I wanted to… earlier.”
Another wave of laughter rolled through the audience.
“She’s got it,” Bei He observed, surprised. “Like, everything she says somehow lands as funny.”
Sometimes, a stand-up comedian’s innate charm matters just as much as their material—especially once they’re thrust onto TV, where every word and gesture gets magnified. Some performers effortlessly win over audiences, while others, despite doing nothing wrong, somehow trigger instant skepticism, making viewers reluctant to even listen.
It’s practically mysticism. Veteran comedians still can’t pinpoint what makes the difference.
“And finally, first place in the preliminary round with 89 votes—Cheng Junhua.”
Before Shang Xiaomei even finished speaking, the crowd had already turned in unison toward Cheng Junhua’s direction, watching as he slowly made his way to the stage.
Cheng Junhua accepted the ranking sheet and took the offered microphone.
The moment the others realized he was about to speak, they immediately erupted in applause, cheering for the industry benchmark.
Facing the enthusiastic ovation, Cheng Junhua instead wore a hint of discomfort on his face. “I’m genuinely embarrassed—this feels a bit shameful,” he admitted frankly. “I don’t think I should’ve been today’s first place.”
With that, his gaze shifted toward Chu Duxiu in the audience, pinpointing her location with unerring accuracy.
“Oh?” Scallion noticed Cheng Junhua’s gaze and immediately glanced at his companion, almost nudging her to point out that the legend seemed to be talking about her.
Chu Duxiu froze when her eyes met Cheng’s.
There was no faking this moment—the gap between Cheng Junhua’s fame and hers was astronomical. He was a household name in the industry; she was a rookie who hadn’t even appeared on TV yet. Their baseline support couldn’t be more different.
Yet despite finishing second, she’d only trailed Cheng Junhua by two votes. By any measure, that was a win.
Before the preliminaries, she’d been known only in Yancheng. Now? She’d left her mark on comedians nationwide—not only outshining last season’s champion but standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a living legend.
It was hard to say whether Cheng Junhua’s votes came from his performance that day… or sheer nostalgia.
The crowd only clapped harder at his admission, partly in agreement, partly in awe that a veteran would openly acknowledge riding his reputation to victory.
Bei He clapped and chimed in, “Don’t worry, I’m way more embarrassed than you.”
Lu Fan shot back, “You’re beyond embarrassment—you’re shameless.”
“Well, this has certainly knocked me flat,” Cheng Junhua admitted with a rueful smile. “Let’s treat this preliminary win as… motivation.” His gaze lingered on Chu Duxiu before he bowed deeply onstage. “I’ll strive to deserve this ranking when the real competition begins.”
Thunderous applause followed as Cheng Junhua stepped down.
Shang Xiaomei, watching this unfold, muted her mic and turned to her co-host in disbelief. “Mr. Cheng actually looks shaken. Like he’s been outshone by a rookie.”
Cheng Junhua had been the show’s white whale—persuaded only after Xie Shenci’s repeated pilgrimages to his doorstep. His contract wasn’t even finalized; if the show disappointed, he’d walk away to protect his legacy.
Xie Shenci remained impassive. “This was inevitable.”
Shang Xiaomei stared. “You’re the one who begged him to join!”
So this was the grand result of their Three Visits recruitment—shattering a legend’s confidence?
