Du Xiu Chapter 39

In the studio, new neon signs appeared on the stage, prominently displaying the bold and fluidly written characters “爱” (Love) and “想” (Thought) at first glance. The production team made slight adjustments to the stage design for each recording to align with the competition’s theme, highlighting the intensity of the contest.

The contestant seats on both sides had gradually dwindled. With the emergence of the top 16, the waiting area now had half as many seats, no longer as crowded as during the knockout rounds.

The two groups were assigned the themes “Love” and “Thought,” respectively. The “Love” group performed first, with Bei He leading the way. Scallion filled in the “love” character with “romantic love”（恋爱）, while Wang Nali wrote about “passion”（热爱）. They would perform in the order determined by a draw, and the rankings would ultimately be announced alongside the “Thought” group.

While her teammates were busy preparing for their performances, Chu Duxiu sat alone, stealing a glance at Cheng Junhua. As usual, he appeared relaxed and composed, wearing a calm smile as he quietly watched the stage—much like his performance style, unhurried yet subtly sharp.

Going head-to-head with his style would mean certain defeat. If she wanted to outshine the veteran, she had to take the opposite approach.

Chu Duxiu wasn’t confident she could win based on textual depth alone, so she resolved to rely on her performance and emotional delivery instead. But she wasn’t sure if she could execute it well, occasionally rolling her shoulders to keep her body energized and ready.

Backstage, Shang Xiaomei and Xie Shenci closely monitored the recording while enjoying the performances of the “Love” group. If the highlight of the “Thought” group was Chu Duxiu and Cheng Junhua, then the ultimate showdown in the “Love” group was between Bei He and Lu Fan.

“Why do I feel like all the topics this round are overwhelmingly positive?” Shang Xiaomei remarked in surprise. “Did everyone suddenly decide to go for emotional, heartwarming material?”

Xie Shenci analyzed, “It’s the effect of the half-prompt format. The example words given in the theme limit the range, so many people’s thinking gets stuck in the same box.”

The half-prompt competition required contestants to fill in their own keywords for their performances, but the range of words they could associate with the theme was limited. Aside from Bei He’s unconventional choice of “loveless,” most contestants stuck to predictable keywords, making it almost inevitable that their ideas would overlap with others’.

This phenomenon was even more pronounced in the “Thought” group. Nearly every performer talked about dreams—once or twice was fine, but by the third time, it became tedious. Even the laughter track operators and the audience began to lose focus, their attention drifting as the content blurred together.

On stage, Su Xinyi wrapped up her exchange with a contestant and remarked with a mix of amusement and exasperation, “I feel like this round has turned into some kind of motivational rally for the contestants.”

Luo Qin clenched his fist and mimicked a passionate declaration. “Like those pre-college entrance exam chants—’30 days to go! I will become a stand-up comedian!'”

Su Xinyi nodded. “Exactly. Everyone ended up sharing their origin story of how they got into stand-up.”

On one side of the stage, Scallion and Wang Nali finished their performances and took their seats opposite Chu Duxiu, separated by the entire stage. Hearing the laughter judges’ comments, they couldn’t help but suck in a breath and whisper to each other.

Wang Nali chewed her lower lip. “Doesn’t that feedback sound a bit… backhanded?”

Scallion replied, “There’s just too much overlap in topics. And honestly, most people get into stand-up through the same few paths—either starting as open mic audience members who later think, ‘Hey, I could do this too,’ or watching a show, quitting their jobs, and going all-in. It’s pretty much the same story every time.”

A few contestants had filled in their keywords with “not wanting”（不想）to discuss the lying flat mentality, but most ended up sharing their dream-chasing journeys.

Wang Nali glanced at the opposite section, where only four or five people remained, including Chu Duxiu and Cheng Junhua. Worried, she said, “Doesn’t that put the later performers at a disadvantage? The material’s bound to get repetitive.”

Scallion said, “So it all comes down to a head-to-head battle on the same theme—whoever has the stronger jokes wins.”

Just then, the host’s voice rang out across the stage:

“Next up—Chu Duxiu!”

Chu Duxiu was fifth in their group’s lineup, while Cheng Junhua was seventh, with just one contestant separating them—a twist of fate that made the draw’s coincidence all the more striking.

Applause erupted as Chu Duxiu strode onto the stage with quick, confident steps. She positioned herself before the microphone, grasped it with steady hands, and—

Boom.

A thunderous sound effect shook the arena as the neon sign behind her blazed to life. Two colossal characters—“Dare to Think”—unfurled like a cinematic backdrop, framing her with perfect symmetry. The sheer scale of it was staggering, as if the stage itself had reshaped around her.

The searing spotlight forced the audience to squint. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“Wow…” Luo Qin shielded his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. “Now that’s a theme with more bite than just ‘dreams.'”

Su Xinyi nodded in agreement.

Onstage, Chu Duxiu stood bathed in the glow, her lemon-yellow jacket blazing brighter than the neon behind her. The lights couldn’t overshadow her—she was the spotlight now.

“Hey everyone, I’m Chu Duxiu.”

No deep bow this time. No formal pause. She paced the stage like she owned it, her tone dripping with playful irreverence:

“Since I was a kid, I’ve always dared to think—and I bet some of you did too. You know, that childhood delusion where you’d lie awake at night, agonizing over whether to go to Tsinghua or Peking University when you grew up.”

The front-row audience’s lips twitched, hands darting up to cover smirks.

“I hadn’t even started elementary school when this dilemma hit me—such crippling life choices.” Chu Duxiu paused, arching a brow before deadpanning. “Then one day I heard about this place called… MIT.”

Her voice crescendoed with mock grandeur, “Suddenly Tsinghua and Peking U were trash! I sprinted to my mom—’Ma! Which province is Massachusetts in? How far is it from Wencheng? I’m gonna test in there! MIT-bound, baby!'”

“My mom just stared.” She mimed wide-eyed shock. “‘That’s not dreaming big, sweetheart—that’s declaring war on America.'”

The first explosion of laughter detonated through the venue—a spark hitting tinder, flames licking at the ceiling.

Where previous contestants’ “dream” narratives had turned stale, her glorious absurdity vaporized the fatigue. Every syllable oozed such delusional confidence that shoulders shook with involuntary giggles.

Across the stage, Cheng Junhua’s relaxed posture stiffened. His gaze sharpened on Chu Duxiu—dissecting her rhythm, tasting the punchlines—as if realizing the game had changed.

The remaining contestants buzzed to life, half-rising from their seats like a stirred hornet’s nest. The air crackled with the electricity of someone redefining the rules mid-tournament.

Bei He clutched his head. “Holy hell—she’s rolling up her sleeves and throwing bombs out there!”

Lu Fan let out a low whistle. “One punch and she knocked the audience awake.”

“She completely switched up her style today—that delivery’s got raw fire in it,” Scfallion blurted, stunned. “No more of that ‘AI single-dog metallic detachment’ vibe.”

If Chu Duxiu’s previous performances were clinical dissections, this was a firework strapped to a rollercoaster. She bounced on her toes mid-punchline, radiating the chaotic energy of a college student who’d just chugged three energy drinks before a final exam.

As laughter subsided, Chu Duxiu rocked back on her heels, clicking her tongue:

“That’s right— unapologetically delusional. If shopping apps can ‘slash prices’ for y’all, baby me almost ‘slashed’ America’s visa requirements for China.”

She flung a hand out, royal-waving an invisible crowd. “Let’s be real—if kid-me joined this show? ‘Comedy King’ wouldn’t even register. Bei He? Cheng Junhua? Who? Couldn’t even spell ‘MIT’!”

“Stand-up champion? Pfft. I’d gun for Comedy Emperor.” She thumped her chest, eyes gleaming with faux grandeur. “Crosstalk, skits, stand-up—monopolized. Spring Festival Gala becomes my residency show. Only when I need a breather do they wheel out the backup dancers!”

“With the world’s laughter at my fingertips, even terrorists would flee from my punchlines!” Chu Duxiu declared, arms outstretched like a comedy messiah. “My jokes would burn brighter than the Olympic flame—a beacon of peace and harmony, radiating from CCTV’s Studio One to every corner of civilization!”

She raised her voice to a triumphant crescendo, “Keyboard warriors would lay down their arms! Trolls would call a truce! The entire internet would chant—’Stop all wars! Turn on the Spring Festival Gala! Duxiu’s about to SPEAK!'”

The audience erupted—laughter crashing like waves, applause crackling like grease hitting a hot wok.

Two judge lights FLASHED to life mid-stage, pushing the frenzy higher.

“I can’t—this is illegally funny,” Luo Qin wheezed, slamming his buzzer while his shoulders shook violently. “I don’t even know why it’s working!”

The text alone shouldn’t have detonated like this. Yet her delivery—fervent as a televangelist, unhinged as a cult leader—transformed absurdity into comedic plutonium.

Wang Nali doubled over, gasping between giggles. “This… this is the beauty of deranged confidence!”

Scallion nodded sagely. “The humor of the mentally unwell, right?”

On screen, Shang Xiaomei rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “You know, this fantastical style of hers… it kinda reminds me of how you talk to people sometimes.”

That same unshakable audacity—
Is it confidence or pure nonsense?

Xie Shenci: “???”

On stage, Chu Duxiu watched the audience dissolve into hysterics. With mock sternness, she raised a finger. “Stop laughing—don’t pretend you’ve never daydreamed this hard. We all had delusions of grandeur as kids.”

“Either draping bedsheets like royal robes, forming ‘Green Dragon Gang’ in the schoolyard, or at the very least—” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Calculating how rich you’d be if every Chinese citizen gave you one yuan.”

The crowd erupted again, waves of laughter crashing like dominoes.

Chu Duxiu’s expression softened. “Honestly? Delusion is bliss. Growing up, my grades were average, my looks just ‘presentable’—nothing like my dazzling older sister. The comparisons never ended…” She shrugged, eyes twinkling. “But I never felt inferior.”

“Back in middle school, they’d post the top student’s photo on the bulletin board—for all three years, guess who owned that spot? My sister. Beauty and brains.” Chu Duxiu spread her hands. “But hey, when God opens a door, He slams a window shut. My sister’s gorgeous but has, like, three friends. Me? I’m socially thriving—just… visually average.”

“Her social media contacts? Deserted. Mine? Flooded—with people trying to get to her.”

The audience cackled.

“Once, some dude had the audacity—not just asking for her contact, but going, ‘You’re not as pretty as your sister, but you’re okay. Keep working on it.’”

Chu Duxiu gasped in mock outrage. “With that attitude? Obviously I wasn’t giving him anything. So I hit back—‘Cool, can I get your brother’s contact then?’”

“He goes, ‘Why?’”

She flung her arms wide, delivering the killshot:
“‘Why work harder? Beauty’s overrated! Nobody cares about “National Fashion Week”—it’s all about NATIONAL POWER. And honey, I’m the woman who almost reclaimed America for China. So where’s. Your. Brother’s. contact?’”

Her words pierced the sky like a lightning bolt, crackling with untamed energy.

Then—snap—the energy shifted. She crossed her arms, raked an exaggerated once-over at the imaginary guy, and delivered the killing blow in a deadpan:

“Sure, you’re not as hot as your brother… but you’ll do. Keep grinding, champ.”

The audience exploded. Gasping, wheezing, clutching ribs—laughter so violent it threatened oxygen deprivation. A third judge’s light SMASHED on, igniting the stage into full brilliance.

This wasn’t just jokes—it was time travel. Her performance, raw and unfiltered, dragged everyone back to childhood’s glorious idiocy: saying ridiculous things, reveling in them, and laughing till your stomach ached.

“Back then, I dared—tuned out the noise, wore arrogance like armor. Nothing could touch my self-esteem.” Chu Duxiu waited for the laughter to fade, her voice softening into nostalgia. “So… when did that change?”

“I stopped daring. Or maybe—I just ran out of things to dare for.” A shrug. “My college entrance scores were fine—good enough to choose a decent major or a decent college, but never both. My looks? Adequate—too plain to charm the handsome, too proud to settle for the unremarkable. My humor? Just sharp enough to wonder… does laughter even matter in the grand scheme?”

She ducked her head, muttering, “Not that I fully quit dreaming. Sometimes I’d stare at the sky and… wish for an asteroid.”

Suddenly, she clenched a fist, teeth bared. “‘Go on—blow it all up! Since I won’t be storming CCTV’s Studio One, just nuke the Spring Festival Gala’s comedy segment instead!’ Bring on the darkness—bring on ‘nuke-lear’ peace!’”

The crowd’s smiles lingered—no longer roaring, but recognizing. A quieter laughter, laced with the ache of outgrowing your own audacity.

Chu Duxiu let out a resigned sigh. “I couldn’t get into MIT—hell, when I came to Haicheng for this show, even my mom asking ‘Can you win?’ felt like an insult.”

She clutched her chest dramatically. “But guys—young me would’ve never been like this. Kid-me would’ve shouted: ‘Comedy King? Pfft—I’m gunning for Comedy EMPEROR!’ That’s how bold I used to be!”

Her voice dropped, raw with self-mockery, “How pathetic, right? I stopped daring because I feared failing. ‘Sorry’ became my mantra. I’d swallow criticism silent, terrified it might be true. And dreams? Ha. I buried them deep—too scared to even voice them, let alone face the laughter.”

The audience didn’t laugh. They leaned in, breath held.

The air thrummed with tangled emotions—yet Chu Duxiu stood unfazed, lost in her own truth.

“All I want is to reclaim that old joy—to dare like that delusional kid again!”

Suddenly, she thrust a finger downward—stabbing it at the stage like a sword plunging into earth—and declared with ironclad resolve:

“Starting now, right here—I’m done losing my audacity to ‘growing up.’ If time steals my delusions, I’ll fight back with action!”

The audience erupted. Waves of applause crashed through the venue—even Su Xinyi, usually composed, couldn’t resist clapping.

Then—a beat.

Chu Duxiu’s performance energy snapped off. Calmly, almost lazily, she pulled out her phone and tapped the screen to life.

The crowd blinked. Wasn’t that the punchline?

Everyone held their breath. What was she doing?

“Alright, all three laughter judges—hand over your contact numbers, please.” Chu Duxiu extended her phone with a lazy grin, slipping back into her playful drawl. “Quick intro: I’m the woman who almost reclaimed America for China.”

She tilted her chin up, triumphant. “See, I’ve grown—now I dare to dream and act. These days, I’ll ask for anyone’s contact—hot guys, gorgeous girls, bring ‘em all!”

The tension erupted like lava. No one expected this callback—even the celebrity guests doubled over laughing.

Su Xinyi covered her mouth, giggling. “Fine, fine—Will WeChat work?”

The other contestants cheered, awed by her last-minute twist.

“Oh my god—”

“Get Su Xinyi’s contact first, then give it to me!”

“Scheming! Absolutely scheming!”

As if hearing the uproar, Chu Duxiu waved magnanimously. “Relax, you guys may not be as famous yet—but you’ll do. Keep grinding! Maybe I’ll invite you to my future Spring Festival Gala special!”

“Thanks everyone—I’m Chu Duxiu!”

And with that, she bounded offstage—a whirlwind of uncontainable joy.