Everyone was caught off guard when Xie Shenci suddenly spoke, and they all looked at him in surprise.
Chu Duxiu was stunned. She saw him turn around from the front row, revealing his full features. She heard him open his mouth, only to say something completely out of context. It took her quite a while to react.
Bei He shook his head with a laugh. “Listen to that—Mr. Xie’s comment came out of nowhere. Clearly zoned out. Just joined the group chat and the first thing he hears is someone’s ‘scandal.’”
Nie Feng added, “He was sitting in the car shooting the ad, looked totally fine earlier, but the moment he heard a contestant had a scandal, he tensed up.”
The other contestants all laughed and didn’t take Xie Shenci’s words too seriously.
“Boss, I was just joking!” Bei He explained, then added teasingly, “No worries—most bosses out there don’t understand the core tech anyway. We’re a comedy company, so it’s normal if you don’t get humor either.”
For a moment, Chu Duxiu seemed infected by Xie Shenci’s distraction. Her mind blanked out, and she instinctively refuted, “Mr. Xie does understand humor…”
Bei He turned to look at her upon hearing that.
Chu Duxiu met his gaze and suddenly snapped back to her senses, realizing it was all just a joke. Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly added, “Especially dry humor.”
Bei He burst out laughing and gave a thumbs-up to Xie Shenci. “Someone’s speaking up for you—said you’ve got a knack for dry humor.”
Xie Shenci shot a glance at Bei He, then looked toward Chu Duxiu in the back.
Bei He waved generously at Chu Duxiu and said, “Alright, I’ll let you have this chance to flatter the boss today! Feel free to throw in a couple more compliments!”
The bus erupted in laughter.
Scallion burst out laughing and applauded admiringly. “Bei He, your personal style is so strong—you’re a natural at hyping up the mood.”
“Doesn’t he sound like one of those little eunuchs from the old dramas?” Lu Fan chimed in. “The tone is spot on.”
The others continued to chat casually, still basking in the cheerful atmosphere as the topic drifted elsewhere.
After being teased, Chu Duxiu and Xie Shenci exchanged a glance without a word, their eyes locking as if each was using the other’s gaze as a mirror. A few seconds later, they both looked away at the same time, a kind of unspoken understanding passing between them—silence speaking louder than words.
Chu Duxiu didn’t look at him again, yet she had a fleeting illusion that he’d smiled. A strange feeling welled up in her chest. It was as if she and Mr. Xie had started communicating telepathically—sometimes even without speaking, they just knew what the other was thinking. It felt like a claw gently scratching at her heart—not sharp, but oddly ticklish.
When Bei He joked with Mr. Xie, she’d responded almost on reflex. Thankfully, she had the sense to add that second sentence, or it would’ve been a bit much.
But really, it wasn’t her fault. Mr. Xie was her “career fan.” When Bei He said he didn’t understand humor, it was basically implying she wasn’t funny.
Who could let that slide?
Chu Duxiu convinced herself that chiming in was perfectly reasonable. A fan’s behavior is something the idol has to take responsibility for (?).
After getting out of the car, the contestants gradually made their way into the studio. Under the guidance of the staff, they headed to the dressing rooms to change and get their makeup done in preparation for the upcoming commercial shoot.
As Chu Duxiu walked in, she casually glanced at her phone and saw a new message.
The sender was saved as “Mr. Xie 10.9.” The message was a cute sticker—not the usual little black cat she often saw, but still a cartoon cat—with the caption: “thank you.”
A completely out-of-the-blue sticker.
However, Chu Duxiu instantly interpreted the hidden message behind it—it was probably saying, “Thanks for speaking up for me.”
If she connected it to past events—like that time in the hotel when he asked her, “Why did you only speak up for him?”—and combined it with what happened in the car today, it was obvious he was much more pleased with the way things turned out this time.
Chu Duxiu turned off her phone screen and couldn’t help admiring her own powers of over-interpretation. If this kept up, the two of them could skip straight to working in intelligence, communicating entirely through stickers—so cryptic outsiders wouldn’t even be able to decode them.
Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.
Were they really communicating through brainwaves now?
Inside the studio, the top sixteen contestants were divided into several groups to film different segments of the commercial.
Chu Duxiu, Wang Nali, and Scallion were in one group. On the show, they were often seated together, frequently delivering group-style commentary like a comedic trio, which the online audience found very entertaining.
Because of this, the director arranged for the three of them to sit on a sofa, recreating the vibe of the show. They would watch TV while chatting about jokes, and when the camera cut to the TV screen, the brand’s advertisement would pop up, followed by a short performance segment in sync with it.
It wasn’t a complicated setup, and the filming process went quite smoothly.
Chu Duxiu had a solo shot, so she finished her part first and waited for her teammates’ two-person scene. Wang Nali and Scallion went after her, performing another short skit together.
During a break, Wang Nali furrowed her brow slightly and patted her chest, saying uncomfortably, “Ugh, no, I still feel stuffy.”
“Car sick?” Chu Duxiu asked with concern, handing her a bottle of water. “Would drinking water help?”
Wang Nali hadn’t taken a car in a long time, and the ride earlier had left her feeling completely dizzy. Even after getting out, she was still feeling drained. She took a furious gulp, downing half the bottle, and said regretfully, “I shouldn’t have eaten so much before getting in—totally wrecked me.”
Scallion chimed in, “Isn’t it supposed to help if you eat something sour when you’re carsick?”
Chu Duxiu stood up and said, “Let me go ask someone—see if there’s any sour snacks, or maybe some sweets.”
“No need, it’s not that dramatic,” Wang Nali said, stopping her. “I’ll be fine in a bit.”
“Well, I’m done filming anyway,” Chu Duxiu replied. “Might as well take a walk—only your scene is left now.”
Seeing this, the other two didn’t try to stop her. With Chu Duxiu now free to move around—and the studio bustling and noisy—taking a walk outside seemed like a good idea.
She gave a quick heads-up to a staff member, then quietly slipped out to look for nearby shops.
A short while later, a man appeared on set, where a green screen was hanging. He was dressed in a formal suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, looking refined and scholarly—completely out of place among the black-clad crew members. He glanced around the set, then casually stopped someone nearby and asked, “Where’s Mr. Xie?”
“Mr. Xie was just over there…” The person panicked a little, glancing around and calling for help, “Hey, someone go find Mr. Xie!”
Lu Fan was sitting nearby, taking a break while waiting for the next shoot. Hearing the commotion, she turned toward the sound. Recognizing the man in the suit, she said in surprise, “Mr. Shang? What’s he doing here?”
“No way,” Bei He instantly turned to look, and sure enough, spotted Shang Liang. He whipped his head back around in a flash and muttered, “Terrifying. Don’t tell me he’s joining us for the meal later.”
In the hallway, Chu Duxiu glanced around as she walked. A girl approached from the opposite direction. She had a staff badge hanging around her neck and was holding a bottle of Vita lemon tea, filled to the brim.
Chu Duxiu quickly stepped forward and asked politely, “Hi, excuse me, can I buy drinks around here?”
The girl was momentarily startled—clearly recognizing Chu Duxiu—and offered the lemon tea without hesitation. “Here, take this one. I haven’t opened it yet.”
“Thank you, but that’s alright,” Chu Duxiu replied a little sheepishly, waving her hands. “It’s just that I need drinks for others too. Do you know where you got it?”
“There’s a vending machine—just turn left.”
Chu Duxiu thanked her repeatedly and, following the directions, ran toward the vending machine. She spotted the lemon tea in the display and also picked out a few other drinks, planning to bring them back to share on set.
After scanning to pay, the machine clattered noisily as the bottles dropped. She bent down to gather them, arms quickly filling to the brim.
The return trip was a struggle. Chu Duxiu clutched the drink bottles tightly as she slowly shuffled her way back to the set, worried they’d clatter to the floor. But just as she neared the studio, she ran into an unexpected obstacle.
Most of the staff were inside the studio, and the hallway was nearly deserted.
Two men stood by the door, and their conversation was clearly audible.
Squatting in a corner to rearrange the drinks, Chu Duxiu unintentionally overheard them. She recognized one of the voices as Xie Shenci. The other man spoke with tight logic, every sentence circling back to Shanle Culture—he was most likely a senior executive at the company.
“There are a few things I need to confirm with you. First is about the guest celebrities for the final. We originally planned to have three ‘laughter representatives’—two regulars and one guest.”
Shang Liang adjusted his glasses and said, “The last two episodes got pretty good feedback. We’ve been in contact with a few celebrity teams—there’s a chance we could bring in some bigger names. The two regulars stay the same, and we add three more for extra appeal. If the budget doesn’t stretch, we’ll just add two. What do you think?”
“Are there really that many celebrities who understand stand-up comedy?” Xie Shenci asked. “The main laughter reps also have to press the light.”
Shang Liang replied evenly, “I talked it over with Xiaomei. Right now, one light equals 50 votes—three reps, 150 votes in total. For the final, we’ll change it to one light equals 20 votes—five reps, 100 votes total. The live audience will also increase. This setup should make the scoring system more balanced.”
Xie Shenci thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good. Let’s go over the final list later.”
“The second thing—I’ve sent the finalized business deals to your email. Do you know what Cheng Junhua was up to today?”
“I do.”
“You actually know?” Shang Liang’s expression changed instantly, shocked. “He’s doing other commercial work during the show’s filming period—that could affect us.”
Cheng Junhua hadn’t shown up for today’s shoot because he had another engagement—filming for something unrelated to the show.
“There’s nothing we can do about that. We only invited him as a contestant in the first place—we have no say in his other jobs,” Xie Shenci replied calmly. “He’s not a contracted actor with our company. His offline activities have nothing to do with Shanle. You’ve seen the finalized contract—both sides only agreed to collaborate on the show.”
Shang Liang remained silent for a long while, his expression somewhat conflicted. “I thought, given your personality, whenever you see a talented actor, you’d go to great lengths to recruit them.”
Xie Shenci replied, “Mr. Cheng is indeed very talented. I admire his courage to return to China and restart his career, and I’m fully aware of how skilled he is as a performer. But to be honest, our styles don’t align. Or rather, it’s a matter of aesthetic preference—his work is excellent, just not something that moves me. I can’t even connect with him as easily as I do with Bei He.”
That was why he and Cheng Junhua had remained distant—maybe their core sensibilities simply didn’t resonate.
“I don’t get your cryptic talk—what do you mean by ‘style,’ ‘preference’?” Shang Liang was completely baffled, and in the end he latched onto one sentence and snapped, “So basically, you can only connect with someone like Bei He, that laid-back joker. But not with a normal person, huh?”
“Speaking of him, now that you mention it—Bei He’s been way too unrestrained lately. Always mouthing off without any respect. This is still a company, you know.”
Shang Liang had never liked Bei He—he always felt the guy showed no respect to management and just joked around all day.
“Let’s not talk about Bei He,” Xie Shenci quickly changed the subject. “Cheng Junhua didn’t join the show for the sake of the program, and both he and I know that. So don’t waste energy trying to pull him in.”
In the corner, Chu Duxiu adjusted the drinks in her arms again, hesitating over whether to step out—she didn’t want to interrupt their conversation. She was starting to understand why Bei He always kept his distance from Mr. Shang: the man seemed like a textbook “normal person,” completely untouched by any trace of comedic spirit.
If Xie Shenci was someone skilled in dry humor—peel back the layers and you’d still find comedy underneath—then Mr. Shang simply didn’t understand humor at all. No wonder he and Bei He didn’t get along.
“Well then, there’s just one last thing. When are you planning to talk to the contestants about signing contracts?”
Shang Liang reminded him, “We’re down to the top sixteen now. Excluding the contestants already with our company, if there are any promising ones, we need to act fast. You have no idea how hot this season is—lots of brands have approached us about ad placements, and it’s only a matter of time before other companies start poaching contestants.”
“Even though we’re the biggest stand-up comedy company in the country, once a wave hits, there’s always someone trying to ride it. We need to secure our first-mover advantage.”
Xie Shenci replied, “I’ll start talking to them one by one soon.”
Shang Liang said, “Alright, there’s no rush for the others. Just make sure to sign Chu Duxiu first.”
Chu Duxiu: “?”
She had already taken two steps forward—only to slowly retreat again, realizing that in the middle of eavesdropping, she’d accidentally become the subject of the gossip.
Unaware that the person in question was just around the corner, Shang Liang continued, “I heard from Xiaomei that she’s still a newcomer—no comedy club affiliation. Judging by the response to the last two episodes, her commercial value is going to soar. We should sign her before she hits peak popularity—there’ll be more room to negotiate, especially when it comes to profit splits. Once she blows up, it’ll be much harder.”
The “Rookie Queen” had made a splash overnight, already showing the poise of a seasoned performer. She was, without question, the hottest commodity for brand endorsements right now.
Xie Shenci said firmly, “But she’s still a university student. She can’t officially join the company yet.”
“Signing a contract and joining the company aren’t the same thing. And isn’t it common for final-year students to sign a tripartite agreement?” Shang Liang was incredulous. “Are you playing dumb with me now?”
Xie Shenci replied calmly, “This should happen naturally.”
“I really don’t know how to talk to you anymore. Maybe we should switch to English—I don’t even understand what you’re saying,” Shang Liang muttered, rubbing his temples. Then he added mockingly, “Don’t tell me her style doesn’t match yours either?”
“I heard that you discovered Chu Duxiu in Yancheng. She didn’t know a thing about stand-up at first. Sounds like you two have a pretty good relationship.”
“Which is exactly why it needs to happen naturally,” Xie Shenci said, lips pressed into a line. He added bluntly, “I get what you mean, but I can’t go about it that way—especially since I was the one who encouraged her to come here in the first place. That makes it even harder to bring up.”
The two men suddenly fell silent, locked in a standoff. The air between them felt frozen.
Chu Duxiu’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t see their expressions, but she could sense the undercurrent—tension was clearly brewing between them, and neither seemed particularly happy.
After a long pause, Shang Liang shook his head and said, “You’re really not suited to running a company.”
Xie Shenci said nothing.
“A company’s purpose is to make a profit. We’re not playing house here. I’ve wanted to say this for a long time—sure, the internal atmosphere can be relaxed, but we’re all adults. Our thinking needs to be more pragmatic. We’re here to make money, not make friends. This isn’t some hobby club.”
“At the end of the day, it’s fine to be casual internally—but what about when you face outsiders? What are you going to tell the investors?” Shang Liang’s tone rose, laced with challenge. “You think they care about your little stand-up friendships and warm fuzzy feelings? You think they’re not looking at the profit numbers?”
Xie Shenci said, “If the only goal is to make money, then there’s really no need to do stand-up comedy. There are plenty of industries with higher returns.”
Shang Liang frowned.
Seeing the other’s clear disapproval, Xie Shenci added lightly, “Besides, it’s fine if I’m not suited to running a company—I can always hire someone to do it. Like you, for example.”
That line was a direct hit—instantly breaking the tense atmosphere and sweeping away all lingering resentment between them.
“Stabbing me in the heart, huh?” Shang Liang widened his eyes in disbelief at Xie Shenci’s shamelessness. “You never used to say stuff like that—you weren’t that kind of spoiled rich kid. Back when we were in school, you were actually pretty proper, even low-key.”
“But since you’re talking to me about being realistic,” Xie Shenci replied unhurriedly, “I figured I should at least speak a little truth.”
“Alright, alright, stop pissing me off. You go ahead with your friendship and love nonsense—do whatever you want,” Shang Liang said, clearly exasperated, waving his hand. “I wish you the best. Just don’t cry when she runs off—who knows, some other company might swoop in and sign her tomorrow.”
Xie Shenci simply replied, “Thanks for your blessing.”
Shang Liang was left speechless.
Dry humor wins all battles—Mr. Shang left in a huff.
Shang Liang, fuming, turned to leave—but suddenly spun back around and said out of nowhere, “By the way, one more question: she really had no stand-up comedy experience before this, right?”
He was still talking about Chu Duxiu.
Xie Shenci replied, “That’s right. Why?”
“Is it possible,” Shang Liang asked, his tone now calmer and filled with hope, “that you could go out and find more performers like her? She’s only been performing for less than a year, and just from the last two episodes—you know how much brands are offering for her now? Honestly, she’s on par with Cheng Junhua.”
Though Shang Liang didn’t understand comedy, he certainly understood money—and he was still chasing that golden goose.
Xie Shenci hesitated for a moment, then asked rhetorically, “So you want me to find a dozen newcomers just like her—people who’ve barely started doing open mics, yet are totally fearless on stage; who can dominate the show, outshine Bei He and kick Cheng Junhua aside; whose material naturally goes viral online, with enough personal style and charisma to attract paying audiences and fill theaters—is that what you’re asking?”
Shang Liang nodded eagerly, totally on board. “Exactly, yes—that’s what I mean! If we had more newcomers like that, the company would really have a future.”
Xie Shenci said mildly, “Go to bed early tonight.”
Shang Liang: “?”
Xie Shenci continued with a straight face. “You’ll have everything in your dreams.”
“???”
