By the bar, the female owner witnessed the scene and, unusually, was also amused: “She’s pretty good — feels like a seasoned performer.”
She had seen many actors come and go at Typoon Transit, but Chu Duxiu was definitely one of the standouts.
“She probably isn’t,” Xie Shenci paused, gazing at the girl under the stage lights, then said thoughtfully, “There’s no technique — it’s all emotion. But she’s good. Very good.”
The narrow space was packed with smiling faces, completely surrounding Chu Duxiu on stage.
The audience’s reactions were like both a calming pill and an adrenaline shot for her. In that moment, it was as if their minds were connected — as long as they were enveloped in thunderous laughter, they could speak about anything without restraint.
“Has anyone here watched Naruto?” Chu Duxiu looked around. “Oh, someone raised their hand. There’s a forbidden jutsu in it called Multiple Shadow Clone Technique. I never quite understood what made it dangerous — why it wasn’t allowed to be learned freely, and why only the main character could use it at will.”
“The official explanation is that Naruto Uzumaki has an unusually large amount of chakra, so making endless clones doesn’t kill him — but for others, it could be life-threatening.”
“But after job hunting recently, I’ve come to a deeper understanding — maybe there’s another reason,” Chu Duxiu spread her hands. “If it weren’t a forbidden technique, you’d realize that upon graduation, no ninja would bother learning any other jutsu. They’d all be scrambling to master Multiple Shadow Clone.”
“Because they’re really too busy. They desperately need lots of clones — one to apply for grad school, one for civil service exams, another for teacher certification…” She counted on her fingers. “And if you’re unlucky and your parents are pressuring you, you need one more clone just to go on blind dates.”
“When you think about it that way, Multiple Shadow Clone is way too dangerous — it just adds even more pressure to graduation. Other students, hearing that someone out there is managing to juggle all of this without dropping a single task, would run over in a panic and beg: ‘Naruto, stop trying to outshine everyone. Leave the rest of us a way to survive. Your clones may not kill you, but they’re killing the rest of us!’”
“Because of you, the village motto has to change. It used to be, ‘Where the leaves dance, the fire will burn.’ Now it’s, ‘Where the leaves dance, the hustle never ends.’”
“We may all be ninjas — masters of endurance — but even we can’t endure this!”
“Hahahahahahaha!”
The first burst of laughter rang out, and it was infectious. Once the frozen audience thawed, it was easy to stir up a storm of laughter again.
The bar filled with rare uproar and liveliness, and even the other performers waiting backstage were listening with rapt attention.
At some point, Chu Duxiu shed her nerves and grew increasingly fluent and relaxed. Her mind was like a high-speed processor, churning nonstop, and the jokes poured from her lips like a gushing spring — one after another, unstoppable.
It wasn’t until she was utterly exhausted that Scallion took over. Yet the audience was still craving more.
“That was amazing. Absolutely brilliant. I almost don’t want to go on now,” Scallion said as he returned to the stage, gripping the mic and rubbing his nose sheepishly. “When the mic broke earlier, my first thought was: ‘That’s it — I’m finished. Tonight’s open mic is over.’”
“But now I understand — the open mic isn’t over. I’m the only one who’s over.”
He looked devastated, one hand holding the mic, the other gesturing helplessly in the air:
“Pick any mic and it blows up. Pick any random audience member and they blow up. What kind of cursed hands do I have?!”
The bar was still buzzing, and the audience remained lively, laughter rippling through the crowd.
Chu Duxiu’s unexpected moment hadn’t derailed the lineup — in fact, it made Scallions set feel more relaxed and enjoyable. Before long, he hit his stride, shaking off his earlier awkwardness and unleashing his comedic energy like he’d just been shot full of adrenaline.
Nie Feng returned to the bar and, watching Scallion now firing on all cylinders, commented, “He’s clearly been provoked.”
“Performers are affected by the energy of the room. Now that the atmosphere’s heated up, he’s loosened up too,” Xie Shenci replied. As he spoke, he lifted his gaze toward the window-side seat — but the daylight had completely faded, and the harsh brightness of the stage lights made the audience area appear even dimmer by contrast.
In the faint light, the girl quietly slipped back into her seat, her movements barely noticeable. From where he sat, he could only make out the vague outline of her back.
The bar and the window-side tables were on opposite ends of the space — to get there, he’d have to wade through the entire crowd. And the venue was already packed.
Nie Feng caught on to what he was thinking. “Wait until the show’s over and everyone’s taking photos. Go then.”
Xie Shenci nodded, pulling his gaze back and turning his attention to the jokes on stage.
As the door swung open, the cool night breeze brushed her face, clearing away the hazy buzz of alcohol.
Chu Duxiu, backpack in hand, tiptoed out of the bar, slipping away from the noise and energy behind the door. This was her usual exit strategy whenever she stumbled upon a Typoon Transit open mic — she didn’t want to stay until the end for group photos, but also didn’t want to leave abruptly and make the performers feel awkward. So she always snuck out quietly when no one was paying attention.
Her mind replayed the performance just now; her nervous system was still buzzing. Her thoughts flickered between clarity and dizziness, like she was being tossed on waves, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
She never imagined she’d one day be the one on stage.
She had expected it to be embarrassing — but once it was over, it actually felt fine. Strangely, even a little exhilarating.
Chu Duxiu was glowing, feeling completely refreshed. Just five or six minutes of rambling had somehow drained all the frustration she’d built up from job hunting earlier in the day. But the good mood didn’t last long. One glance at her phone — and the joy vanished.
Chu Shuangyou had been extremely efficient. In the time it took to eat one meal, she’d already sent over the files. The Excel spreadsheet was neatly organized, listing all the civil service positions Chu Duxiu was eligible to apply for, complete with a zip folder of prep materials.
A few glorious minutes on stage — and back to the grind offstage.
Chu Duxiu hadn’t expected her sister to act so quickly, which only made her feel more guilty. She hurried to type a thank-you message. Opening the spreadsheet, she glanced at the dense rows of text, then decided she’d go through it properly once she got back to campus.
The audience had dispersed inside the bar, and the stage lights were turned off, leaving only a mess of tables and chairs — the place looked quite deserted.
After the open mic ended, Xie Shenci couldn’t find the girl who had gone on stage. She had slipped out quietly, without anyone by the door even noticing.
“Do you guys know her?” Xie Shenci walked over to the window-side table, which was already empty. He casually began clearing the dishes.
“No, we really don’t know her. She’s not an actor, none of us have even heard of her,” Nie Feng replied briskly as he wiped the table. Seeing Xie Shenci start to help, he said, “Leave it there. You and Scallion don’t worry about it. Jingjing and I will handle it.”
Xie Shenci had an outstanding presence — he looked like he was used to luxury and comfort. He had come specifically searching for stand-up comedians. Currently, he was responsible for season two of The Stand-Up King. Though he never performed on stage, he was effectively part of the show’s producers.
Nie Feng wouldn’t dare ask him to do cleaning — that would be overstepping a bit.
Xie Shenci didn’t respond, silently finishing the tidying and taking the dishes to the sink.
Scallion hung his head, dejectedly putting down the microphone. “It’s okay, let me handle it. Only hard work can help me forget the pain of tonight…”
Nie Feng laughed and teased, “Don’t sweat it. So you messed up the opening — the rest went pretty well. Everyone bombs a few times!”
“Is she a nearby student?” Xie Shenci, having finished clearing the dishes, began arranging the tables and chairs again, asking, “Maybe it was her first time on stage, but she probably comes here often to listen.”
“We can ask around,” Nie Feng replied, dragging out his words in a sing-song tone, “Jingjing—”
Before long, the female owner Chen Jing came out from the kitchen. After hearing the whole story, she said reluctantly, “I don’t have her contact info. She’s a regular here, though. Seems like she’s about to graduate. And in the past six months, today was the only time she showed up.”
Scallion frowned. “So she might not come back?”
“Does the uni know about her?” Xie Shenci asked.
“No idea,” Chen Jing hesitated. “…All I know is she usually orders the honey-glazed chicken rice.”
There were several universities nearby, and the bar served too many students for the owner to remember them all clearly.
Xie Shenci hadn’t expected the lead to dry up. He thought Nie Feng had connections to all the local performers — even if he didn’t know the girl personally, surely a friend would. But it turned out she was a complete lone wolf.
As he reached out to straighten a soft sofa, something in the trash bin in the corner caught his eye.
“Mr. Xie, there’s really no need for this—seriously!” Nie Feng looked on in alarm as Xie Shenci reached barehanded into the trash bin. “You’re here to scout performers, not to take out the trash. This is just… too much!”
The trash bin had just been lined with a fresh plastic bag, and there was no real garbage inside — only a neatly folded square of A4 paper. Xie Shenci unfolded the crumpled sheet, and the name “Chu Duxiu” immediately caught his eye, along with a clean, full-color ID photo.
She must’ve tossed it after a job interview, likely without thinking. As luck would have it, she was the only one who had used that bin tonight, so the paper hadn’t been buried under anything else.
Peeking over his shoulder, Scallion caught sight of the photo and let out a low whistle. “Looks like Cinderella didn’t lose a glass slipper — she left her résumé behind with a side of honey-glazed chicken rice.”
The next day, in the girls’ dormitory.
Chu Duxiu sat cross-legged on her bed, checking for replies to the résumés she’d sent out online, while chatting idly with her roommates about the state of fall recruitment. The conversation quickly dove into the bleak reality of the job market.
“It’s brutal this year. Truly brutal. Even our advisor is getting anxious about signing those tripartite agreements. A lot of people wanted to work before the fall recruitment started, but now half our class is applying for grad school, a quarter’s going abroad—there’s hardly anyone left.”
Chu Duxiu was stunned. “Seriously? That extreme? I don’t remember last year being like this.”
“The economy gets worse every year. Of course we’re the ones getting hit.”
“But even if you go to grad school, you still have to work after. It’s not like everyone can stay and teach.”
“Think of it as a three-year extension,” someone joked. Then, as if remembering something, she turned to Chu Duxiu. “Oh right—how did your interview go, Xiuxiu? Time to talk money?”
“It completely fell apart,” Chu Duxiu groaned. “The HR was spitting while arguing with me.”
The day before, after pouring her heart out at the bar, Chu Duxiu hadn’t brought it up again when she got back. But now that her roommates were asking, she figured she might as well tell the whole story again — complete with the bizarre meltdown of GM Wang.
By the end of her account, her roommates were full of sympathy.
“It’s fine — not going was the right choice. That company sounds totally sketchy. Who knows, it might go bankrupt in a couple of days. You’d just end up job-hunting all over again.”
“Exactly. I’ve run into weird stuff too. One time an HR dragged me in for an interview, but turns out they weren’t even hiring…”
The dorm room conversation carried on, but the longer Chu Duxiu listened, the more uneasy she felt. It seemed like every fresh graduate was deep in the trenches, each with their own strange horror story. She had already looked through the civil service job listings her sister sent, but part of her still wanted to try finding something else. Helplessly, she scanned through the job sites again — but all the résumés she’d submitted recently had vanished without a trace.
Just then, her phone lit up with a call from an unknown number. She picked up and was greeted by a polite male voice.
“Hello, is this Chu Duxiu?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Is now a good time to talk? We’ve come across your résumé…”
“It’s fine, I’m available.” Chu Duxiu quickly got to her feet, dodging her chattering roommates and slipping out onto the balcony to take the call. “May I ask where you saw my résumé?”
She had used several job platforms in the past couple of days and was curious which one this caller had found her on.
“…The bar’s trash bin.”
“?”
There was a brief silence on both ends of the line.
Chu Duxiu stared at her phone, stunned, momentarily at a loss for words.
What was this — a new scam technique that used a nice voice and jokes instead of a sketchy dialect?
A moment later, Xie Shenci lowered his eyes to his phone screen and said flatly, “She hung up.”
Nie Feng looked baffled. “She hung up? What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Sorry, but I’ve already downloaded the National Anti-Fraud Center app.’”
“…”
