Du Xiu Chapter 30

After finishing her performance and exchanging pleasantries with the guests, Chu Duxiu slowly exited the stage amid applause.

Before long, Wang Nali and Scallion also wrapped up their comedy routine and moved to the right section, reuniting with Chu Duxiu. They sat side by side, watching the competition unfold.

The waiting area on the left grew increasingly sparse, signaling that the breakthrough round was nearing its end.

Wang Nali counted on her fingers, asking, “Are there even ten people with three lights now?”

“I can’t remember,” Chu Duxiu replied. “But at this rate, it’s unlikely we’ll hit twenty with full lights.”

“Here it comes, another full-light performance!” Scallion nearly leaped from his seat, clapping excitedly. “The big shot is here—”

The announcement rang out on stage: “Next up, please welcome contestant—Cheng Junhua.”

Luo Qin instantly straightened in his seat, perking up with barely contained excitement. He turned to the person beside him and said, “The first comedy special I ever watched in China was Cheng Junhua’s Silent Summit.”

Su Xinyi nodded in understanding.

As a seasoned comedian, Cheng Junhua had debuted his first solo stand-up comedy special, Silent Summit, long before The Stand-Up King even existed. Much like a singer’s concert, the special was almost entirely his own performance—featuring stage acts, audience interactions, and personal reflections.

Perhaps many comedians could hold the stage for five minutes, but not everyone could sustain a full 90-minute special. That kind of endurance would weed out most performers.

Chu Duxiu also held her breath, waiting to see what Cheng Junhua would bring this time. During the preliminary rounds, she had relied on quick wit and tight five-minute sets to stand out. But Cheng Junhua had stuck to his signature special-style storytelling back then—she wondered what he would deliver now.

On stage, Cheng Junhua wore a light jacket over a casual shirt and a pair of yellow boots, looking relaxed and at ease. As always, his tone was gentle and unhurried as he said, “Hello everyone, I’m Cheng Junhua.”

No raised voice, no flashy opening—yet the audience erupted in warm applause.

This was the difference between newcomers and veterans. Newcomers had to shout to grab attention, but seasoned performers, long accustomed to the stage, had honed their craft to a natural ease.

“The breakout round is intense, and the contestants are so talented that even someone like me, who’s been doing stand-up for years, feels a bit out of his depth,” Cheng Junhua sighed softly, speaking at his usual measured pace. “Before joining the show, Mr. Xie from Shanle flew to Nancheng to invite me multiple times. Honestly, I hesitated—should someone who’s already had his own special really come here to compete as a contestant?”

Then, glancing down at his feet, he added, “But after the preliminary round, I dropped the act real quick. Midlife crisis hit hard—I started worrying that if they cut me, the show could easily train up a bunch of new talents instead.”

Laughter rippled through the audience.

Chu Duxiu observed intently, realizing that Cheng Junhua had a distinct personal style—he performed with the ease of a casual conversation. Despite his soft Southern accent, his enunciation was crystal clear. He didn’t need meticulously crafted material to effortlessly engage the audience.

His delivery was always light, tinged with a hint of melancholy and resignation, skillfully building up from lows to highs to generate laughter.

“Did everyone watch the preliminary round footage?” Cheng Junhua glanced around, holding the mic. “If not, no worries—honestly, better if you didn’t.”

The audience, reveling in his discomfort, cheered: “We did—!”

“So you all saw me make a fool of myself, huh?” He paused, feigning embarrassment, then continued, “The production team was especially ruthless—first, they showered me with praise, hyping me up sky-high. The moment I walked into the venue, other comedians started chanting, ‘The master’s here, the legend’s arrived!’ Felt like I was floating on cloud nine.”

“Then I realized—that wasn’t praise. It was a hunting signal. They were gunning for the big shot.” He rubbed his nose awkwardly. “Aim for the big fish… turns out I’m the oldest catch in the pond.”

The crowd erupted in laughter. Luo Qin, cackling, slammed his buzzer.

Qiu Mingche facepalmed in amused exasperation. “What kind of buzzer trigger is that? You like watching your idol get roasted?”

Cheng Junhua shook his head, his gaze drifting away as he mused wistfully, “A 22-year-old rookie champion—what does that even mean? And that ‘Mount Hua Comedy Swordfight’ bit—how did she even come up with that?”

“What’s most infuriating is that this rookie champion has mastered the dialects of Emei Sect, Tianshan Sect, and Divine Dragon Cult—yet she’s a bona fide Wencheng native, with no connection to any of those regions whatsoever.”

“She shouts, ‘We duel not with humor, but with swords!’ and then—thrust—stabs me right in the chest.”

“It’s like… I trained diligently for a hundred years, convinced I was the undisputed master, only for some prodigy kid to appear out of nowhere and strike me down with a single flick of the wrist.” He sighed dramatically. “That’s when it hit me—I’m just the prequel to this wuxia novel. The real protagonist? Turns out she’s a heroine.”

The audience erupted in laughter. Even Su Xinyi couldn’t hold back her giggles—she reached out and slapped her buzzer!

“Ooooh—”

The contestant area erupted in chaos. The others, never ones to miss out on some drama, crowded around Chu Duxiu, elbowing her playfully with exaggerated winks. “The big shot’s coming for you!”

Back in the prelims, Chu Duxiu had woven Cheng Junhua into her set. Now, during the breakout round, Cheng Junhua was returning the favor—turning the tables on her in this very moment!

Scallion pantomimed holding out a mic, shoving it toward Chu Duxiu with mock seriousness. “We gotta get your reaction—what’s going through your mind right now?”

“The big shot called me a genius,” Chu Duxiu declared. “Keep the compliments coming—I’m loving this.”

“???”

Talk about taking things out of context.

Cheng Junhua wiped his forehead as if exhausted. “Tragic. Absolutely tragic. You know what’s worse than regular anxiety? Midlife crisis anxiety.”

“Young people can afford to panic—at least they’ve got youth on their side. They can scream, ‘Are kings and nobles born superior?!’ But what’s my battle cry supposed to be now, stuck in this limbo?”

“‘In life, who escapes death? Let my loyalty illuminate history!’?” He sighed dramatically. “The true misery of middle age? You can’t even recall a decent college entrance exam poem anymore. Memory’s gone—hell, I can’t even shout slogans properly. My volume’s shot.”

Before the screen, Shang Xiaomei remarked, “Wow, this part actually mirrors Duxiu’s Li Bai bit from the prelims.”

“He’s deconstructing his own veteran status,” Xie Shenci analyzed. “He’s competing seriously this time—but he’s worried the audience might feel distant, so he’s laying it all out in the breakout round. That’ll make the later rounds smoother.”

Cheng Junhua’s seniority was a double-edged sword. With his legacy and fanbase, audience expectations were inherently different. During the prelims, netizens had showered Chu Xiuxiu with praise, but their standards for seasoned performers were far stricter.

The irony? His style was all about approachability, not fiery, high-energy theatrics.

By laying bare his insecurities now, he’d ironically turned them into strength.

“Looking back, I briefly reigned over China’s stand-up comedy scene—only to realize history’s wheels turn too fast. The ruling class now faces a full-blown crisis. Outdated performances, comedians, and systems are holding back the art form’s progress, and I’ve become the very relic that needs reforming… or overthrowing.”

“After all these years in comedy, I used to blame the niche audience and underdeveloped market for my lack of impact. Turns out? The problem was just me all along.”

Cheng Junhua delivered this with eerie calm, “As a representative of the decadent old guard, I must embrace progress. When I see young talent now, I feel no jealousy—only a sincere hope that she’ll ace her civil service exams.”

“Someone this exceptional shouldn’t stay in our little circle. She belongs to the state.”

Leaning into the mic, he muttered, “Let her uplift society at large. As for uplifting stand-up comedy… well, I’ll handle that.”

“HAHAHAHAHA—”

The audience’s roar nearly blew the roof off. Even Qiu Mingche cracked up and hit his buzzer, flooding the stage in light.

Backstage, other contestants howled at Chu Duxiu. “Damn, he just drafted you into bureaucracy!”

Laughing, she ducked behind Wang Nali to escape the merciless ribbing.

“This is brilliant,” Lu Fan covered her mouth, whispering. “The key is—the comedian he’s referencing has already left a mark on the audience. Now flipping the script creates an instant payoff.”

Chu Duxiu had performed before Cheng Junhua, her wildly successful set etching its premise into everyone’s minds. Cheng Junhua didn’t need to laboriously establish the “rookie champion’s” brilliance—the audience instantly grasped it, riding the emotional undercurrent effortlessly.

Had Chu Duxiu gone after him, or worse, bombed, this bit would’ve fallen flat. Cheng Junhua would’ve been forced to pivot, scrambling for fresh material to chase those three laughter-fueled lights.

As Cheng Junhua exited to roaring applause, something became clear: He never once raised his voice, yet commanded the room like a tai chi master—every deliberate motion resonating deeper than its surface.

“Damn, that was good.” Chu Duxiu’s gaze turned distant as she sighed. “Right now, I wish I could turn back time—just to see how the master would’ve performed if I’d bombed my set.”

“Mutually assured destruction, huh?” Scallion clicked his tongue. “You really get the art of co-suffering.”

After the marathon recording session, the breakout round finally concluded. Nine contestants had earned full lights—veterans like Bei He and Lu Fan, fresh faces like Chu Duxiu and Nie Feng, and the one-of-a-kind Cheng Junhua, who’d completely upended the Season 1 top-ten hierarchy.

“This season’s competition is brutal,” Qiu Mingche remarked. “Even I felt nervous after today’s filming, let alone the contestants waiting for rankings.”

While full-light performers were virtually guaranteed advancement, the real tension now lay in the 10th to 25th place rankings—a make-or-break zone for the remaining comedians.

Luo Qin announced, “Next, we’ll reveal the contestants advancing from the breakout round.”

Scallion pressed his lips together, barely daring to breathe. Wang Nali gripped Chu Duxiu’s hand tightly—neither had earned three lights, and now they fidgeted nervously in their seats.

Chu Duxiu stared fixedly at the screen, silently offering her own prayers.

“First, the top ten performers of this breakout round…”

With a dramatic boom, the large screen lit up. As the top ten names flashed across the display, both Chu Duxiu and Scallion’s names appeared among them.

“I’m actually tenth?” Scallion blinked in disbelief. “The gatekeeper of the three-light tier.”

Having failed to secure three lights, Scallion had barely scraped through—landing exactly on the cutoff line at tenth place.

Wang Nali, who had been tense all over, suddenly yanked Chu Duxiu’s arm excitedly after seeing the rankings. “You’re number one!”

Chu Duxiu’s vision swam with disbelief—she hadn’t expected to top the entire competition, ranking above all other performers.

Scallion remarked, “You beat the veteran by two votes.”

The tables had turned from the preliminary round. This time, Chu Duxiu’s two-vote lead narrowly edged out Cheng Junhua in second place.

“Honestly, my lack of fame dragged the veteran down,” Chu Duxiu explained. “When I referenced him in the prelims, everyone knew who he was—the jokes landed perfectly. But when he referenced me this round, I’m still a nobody, so the impact wasn’t as strong.”

Scallion shook his head back and forth before drawling sarcastically, “Suuuure—”

“Diplomatic. Very diplomatic,” Wang Nali patted her back. “You should sit for civil service exams with that tact.”

With two-thirds of the “Scallion-Ginger-Garlic Trio” making top ten, only Wang Nali’s fate now hung in the balance.

“Next, we’ll announce contestants ranked 11th through 25th.”

Wang Nali gulped nervously, while Chu Duxiu and Scallion widened their eyes, seemingly infected by her anxiety.

With a sound effect, the large screen lit up again, revealing the remaining advancing contestants.

“Am I there? Am I there?” Wang Nali quickly scanned the list but didn’t spot her name at first glance, her face immediately falling in disappointment.

Chu Duxiu tilted her head and suddenly spotted it at the very end: “Last place! You barely made the cutoff!”

Compared to the preliminary round, Wang Nali had climbed up the rankings—squeezing in right at 25th position.

Xiao Cong exclaimed, “Talking about luck—!”

Truth be told, Wang Nali’s advancement brought even more joy than Chu Duxiu’s first-place finish. At least they wouldn’t have to part ways after the breakout round and could still cling on together a while longer.

The trio erupted into ecstatic, chaotic dancing, swaying like wild seaweed in the contestants’ area as they celebrated their triumph.

After the chaotic breakout round, half the contestants bid farewell to the show with regret, while the other half—exhausted from their advancement—took the chance to unwind, collapsing into deep slumber in their hotel rooms.

With some time before the next themed competition, the advancing contestants could steal a brief respite before diving back into the tournament.

But while the performers rested, others were just getting started.

The breakout round footage was handed to the editing team, undergoing rough cuts, fine edits, effects packaging, and subtitling before becoming the opening episodes of The Stand-Up King‘s second season.

Inside the film base’s editing suites, rows of Mac computers hummed as busy editors periodically rose from their workstations—the quiet frenzy of post-production in full swing.

Xie Shenci stood before the computer screen, staring at the episode title for a long moment before finally speaking up. “You pulled me away from the promo team just to come up with this kind of marketing?”

The first finalized cut was ready for internal review, but its title screamed: “Bloodbath! Rookie Phenom vs. Veteran Legend—Chu Duxiu’s Debut Flop! Cheng Junhua’s Midlife Crisis!”

Shang Xiaomei rubbed her chin. “Actually, maybe ‘Shocking!’ works better than ‘Bloodbath!’? Or we could go with ‘Not Watching This Makes You Un-Chinese!’?”

“…That’s not the issue here.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Shang Xiaomei sat back, defending her choice. “The rookie tackles graduate anxiety, the veteran tackles midlife anxiety—boom, we’ve got an all-ages show covering every demographic.”

“We’re an all-ages comedy show, not an all-ages horror story.” Xie Shenci paused, then cut to the heart of it. “Titles this blunt might get us a ‘guidance chat’ with regulators. Online variety scrutiny’s tightening.”

He wasn’t sure if it counted as clickbait—technically, Chu Duxiu’s debut hadn’t flopped at all.

“If we do get summoned, just send Shang Liang. Tell him we’re busy editing contestants’ material.”

“…”

Xie Shenci considered it for three seconds before decisively ruling. “Fine. We’re running with it.”