Du Xiu Chapter 40

The entire audience was still immersed in the previous performance, their eyes following Chu Duxiu as she dashed toward the contestants’ area.

Wang Nali and Scallion waved at Chu Duxiu excitedly.

The other contestants were equally stunned, chattering among themselves in animated discussion.

Bei He slumped in his seat, wiping the corner of his eye before rubbing his stomach. “That was too much—completely drained my emotions. My stomach hurts from laughing.”

“After every segment she delivered, the audience needed time to finish laughing before they could even process the next part,” Nie Feng remarked. “Her energy was insane—unstoppable.”

“The next performer is in trouble. This is a tough act to follow—everyone’s completely blown away.”

Chu Duxiu’s jokes hit hard and fast, sometimes even pausing to let the moment settle before continuing. The audience couldn’t control their roaring laughter, needing brief pauses to recover—otherwise, they’d miss the next punchline.

However, when the laughter reaches its peak, the following contestants face a tough challenge—not everyone can keep up the momentum, and comparisons are inevitable.

Only three unperformed contestants remain, their section now eerily quiet and desolate.

Moments later, the next contestant takes the stage amid cheers, leaving only Cheng Junhua and one other behind.

“Thankfully, there’s one person between me and the ‘Rookie Queen,” Cheng Junhua shook his head and muttered to the person beside him. “A direct clash would’ve been game over—my style would’ve been completely overshadowed.”

Chu Duxiu’s stage presence today was bold and flamboyant, while Cheng Junhua’s style was understated and introspective. Performing back-to-back would have risked his act being utterly crushed.

Sure enough, the sixth contestant struggled to reignite the energy, unable to surpass the high of the previous act. Still, he managed to salvage some laughter with improvised jokes, poking fun at his unlucky placement in the lineup.

Before long, the announcement echoed through the venue, “Please welcome the next contestant—Cheng Junhua!”

The audience erupted in applause, joined by fellow contestants, all watching as Cheng Junhua stepped onto the stage.

“This might be rough for the veteran,” Bei He murmured under his breath as he clapped. “The energy from the previous act was just too strong.”

Lu Fan nodded in agreement. “The thing is, his jokes take a moment to sink in—the laughter comes later. They’re not the explosive, crowd-hype kind.”

Chu Duxiu didn’t hear the comments around her. Her full attention was fixed on the stage, waiting for the performance about to unfold.

Cheng Junhua stepped onto the stage unhurriedly, and behind him, the giant text instantly switched to a neon sign that read: “IDEAL.”（理想）

Su Xinyi chuckled. “And just like that, we get a completely different vibe.”

Luo Xin agreed, “Yeah, you can tell just from the word choice.”

Each contestant’s chosen keyword set the tone for their performance—like the bold energy of “Daring to Think” or the quiet contemplation of “Ideal.”

Cheng Junhua held the mic, standing motionless as his soft, deliberate voice carried through—still restrained, still measured.

“Hello everyone, I’m Cheng Junhua. To be honest, every time I chase my ideals, I somehow end up stumbling. Nothing ever goes smoothly for me. Things always sound great in my head, but reality… well, reality disagrees.”

He gave a wry smile. “Before this round, I thought, ‘Let this old man summon the passion of his youth!’—you know, relive my stand-up glory days. I talked big, planned to go toe-to-toe with the ‘Rookie Queen,’ and reclaim those two votes I lost to her in the qualifiers. But after watching her set just now… I realized, once again, I was wrong.”

“She delivered a whole set about AI and singlehood, then evolved like an AI herself. The previous contestant got crushed, and now it’s almost my turn.”

Laughter rippled through the audience.

“But it’s fine—I’m used to it. On the road to pursuing my ideals, I’ve never been right. I always dream big but execute terribly.” He smiled faintly, speaking at a leisurely pace. “I have this remarkable talent—I can ruin absolutely anything. The first attempt is always the best; the moment I try to improve it, everything goes to hell.”

“If I double-check and change an exam answer, it’s guaranteed to be wrong. The second I wash my car, it rains. I could’ve just coasted through this show quietly, but no—I had to challenge the ‘Rookie Queen.’ Now my pride’s been shattered into pieces—shattered like a Korean’s scream—”

Cheng Junhua’s face stayed deadpan as he spat out the words: “Ah, ssibal (씨발).” [1]

The other contestants erupted in excitement, stunned by Cheng Junhua’s unexpected shift.

“A bilingual pun!” Scallion cheered. “The legend’s gone rogue—”

Chu Duxiu’s eyes widened. “Korean? I thought he came back from America!”

Bei He remarked in surprise, “The veteran seems much more relaxed today—he’s not going for his usual deep, introspective style this time.”

Perhaps after seeing audience feedback from previous competitions, Cheng Junhua had gradually adjusted his usual reserved approach rather than sticking to his old strategy against Chu Duxiu.

Cheng Junhua reminisced, “The first mistake I made chasing my ideal was doing Chinese stand-up in the U.S. Seriously, I’m not exaggerating—as rough as I look now, back then I was top three in Chinese stand-up over there.”

Someone in the audience gasped, “Whoa—”

With a faint, bashful smile, he added, “The reason was simple: the other performers were all Chinese-Americans who’d nearly forgotten the language. I was just the most fluent.”

The three laughter judges burst out laughing and couldn’t help but applaud, lighting up one of the stage’s approval indicators.

“Now, some of you might be wondering—if you did Chinese stand-up in the U.S., did the locals even understand it?” Cheng Junhua continued. “Of course not. So I didn’t perform for them. I stuck to Chinatown—Chinese people making Chinese people laugh.”

“And they were very supportive. Usually, halfway through my set, they’d yell, ‘How come the only skill you’ve mastered out of ‘speaking, imitating, comedy, and singing’ is just comedy?!’”

“I patiently explained, ‘Well, I’m doing stand-up comedy, not crosstalk.'” [2]

“To which they cheerfully replied, ‘Ohhh, so solo crosstalk—but you can still use bamboo clappers, right?'”

Cheng Junhua frowned in despair. “They completely disregarded my stand-up comedy dreams. Chinese people sure know how to annoy other Chinese people.”

“I was desperate. I kept insisting, ‘It’s not solo crosstalk, it’s stand-up comedy! Do you even know what stand-up comedy is?’ And finally, I gave up and said, ‘Fine, if you really don’t get it, I’ll just explain it to you while playing the bamboo clappers!'” [3]

The next second, he pulled out a pair of bamboo clappers from his pocket and started rattling them loudly, even breaking into a rhythmic chant:

“Let these clappers set the beat, maybe now you’ll see,
My lofty dreams are like ‘Goubuli’ buns—ignored completely!”

The unexpected prop sent the audience into hysterics. Laughter erupted like a tidal wave, leaving everyone’s jaws on the floor.

The contestants let out a collective “Whaaat—” and immediately lost it—some jumping up and clutching their heads, others staring in delighted disbelief, as if watching a panda suddenly start performing tricks.

Lu Fan blinked, stunned. “He actually knows how to play bamboo clappers…”

“Damn! The legend’s going all out this time!” Bei He said in awe. “He never pulled this move when I faced him.”

“If this were an anime,” Scallion snickered, “this would count as an ‘Anti-Xiu Noble Phantasm.'”

The group burst into laughter, teasing Chu Duxiu, “He really busted out the Spring Festival Gala’s nuclear option.”

Chu Duxiu, torn between laughing and gritting her teeth, protested, “Bamboo clappers?! I thought he came back from America!”

“Clearly, my Chinese stand-up career abroad was a flop—but I did succeed in tarnishing the reputation of crosstalk performers,” Cheng Junhua deadpanned.

As his set ended, he leisurely tucked away the clappers and sighed. “The road to chasing my ideals keeps veering off course. Not only did I fail to promote our industry—I nearly dragged down the one next door.”

The second approval light lit up, sparking another wave of laughter from the audience.

“Of course I refused to accept defeat,” Cheng Junhua shrugged. “One misstep doesn’t mean I was wrong—maybe the world was. So I returned to China for this show, thinking: Now everyone speaks Chinese—surely they’ll get me?”

“Turns out, coming back just exposed my flaws—my language skills weren’t an advantage anymore. Audiences said my material was too deep to be funny, that I kept English stand-up habits they couldn’t follow. I was baffled—like, Bro, I spent years abroad stuck in Chinatown—when did I even use English?”

“Let’s be real, some of us do go overseas to ‘make it big’… but end up still just speaking Chinese.” He suddenly whipped out the bamboo clappers again. “If y’all still don’t get it, fine—I’ll explain it with these damn clappers!”

The audience cackled, now fully charmed by his antics.

“Lately, I’ve been rethinking my act—trying to find a format that works for me.” Cheng Junhua mused. “Full English? No way. Pure Chinese? I’ll lose. So directors, hear me out: it’s time to globalize this show.”

“This round’s ‘semi-themed’? Next is ‘semi-finals’? Let’s go full semi-Chinese semi-English hybrid stand-up. Take notes from rap shows here—lyrics are half English anyway! We can adapt.”

“Just slap subtitles on screen: ‘Single rhyme! Double rhyme! Freestyle! Punchline!’ Toss in a ‘keep it real’ now and then.” He demonstrated. “Even if the audience misses the words, they’ll think it’s cool. Stand-up could totally work like this.”

“Let’s mix Chinese and English too, with subtitles flashing on screen—Delivery! Hybrid! Callback!—and casually drop a ‘keep relax’ in there. That way, even if the audience doesn’t understand, they won’t think I’m the unfunny one.”

Cheng Junhua lowered his voice conspiratorially, “They’ll just assume they’re not cultured enough—that they can’t appreciate great stand-up, that they’re not… relax enough.”

The studio erupted in hearty laughter as all three approval lights lit up on stage, sparking thunderous applause.

On the monitor, Shang Xiaomei watched the performance with admiration. “Mr. Cheng is different today—way stronger than in the themed rounds.”

Xie Shenci replied calmly, “This is exactly why he joined the show.”

Shang Xiaomei blinked. “What?”

“After watching the preliminary rounds, he decided to sign up—just for this moment.”

Though Cheng Junhua had joined after Xie Shenci’s persistent invitations, Xie knew the real catalyst was the preliminary competition.

The two had spent long hours discussing in Nanchang without progress—until Cheng visited Wenxiao Theater for a trial show. The moment he saw Chu Duxiu’s performance, everything changed. The recording contract was signed shortly after.

Cheng Junhua might seem easygoing and approachable, but beneath the surface, he harbored a strong sense of pride—the kind of stubborn, almost artistic integrity that refused to bend easily.

He disliked competition shows, disliked reducing stand-up comedy into fragmented punchlines, disliked content that aimed solely for laughs without substance. He worried the program might misrepresent what stand-up truly was, and he remained skeptical of Shanle Culture’s strategy of “popularize first, refine later.”

Yet he also knew exactly what a great stand-up comedian looked like.

After standing alone at the silent mountaintop for so long, the view had grown monotonous. But now, a new sun was rising—light clouds drifting across the sky, painting it in fresh hues—and even Cheng Junhua’s spirit began to shift.

Perhaps it was the presence of a worthy rival that pushed him to shed his reservations, gradually adapting to the industry’s new rhythm.

On stage, Cheng Junhua’s performance continued. His southern accent carried no aggression, nor did he rely on volume to command attention. Instead, his delivery was like a silver needle hidden in soft fabric—unassuming, yet capable of pricking you when least expected.

“On my quest for ideals, I often make mistakes—but that’s fine. I’m used to it. Lately, the news has given me some perspective. I’ve made peace with it.”

“I’m human. Having ideals but screwing up? That’s practically our species’ defining trait.”

He spoke slowly, deliberately, “Don’t believe me? Look at our ‘talents’ as a species. We preach about building a better world, dream of a global village—then merrily dump nuclear wastewater, leak vinyl chloride, casually release viruses, and stir up wars. Isn’t that just… humanity?”

“Honestly, the harder we try, the faster we race toward disaster. Sounds familiar, right?” He chuckled darkly. “Compared to that, our ordinary ideals are harmless even when they fail. We should be more daring—at least we’re not hurting anyone.”

The audience responded with weary laughter, then erupted into thunderous applause.

In that moment, they weren’t judging whether it was funny or not—they just kept clapping, as if affirming something far bigger.

“So hold onto your ideals. Getting it wrong doesn’t matter. At least you tried.”

“Thank you, everyone. I’m Cheng Junhua.”

Cheng Junhua bowed deeply, then retreated from the stage amidst the applause.

Translator’s Note:

[1] The original word here is “稀巴烂”. This is a bilingual pun where the Chinese phrase “稀巴烂” (xībā làn, meaning “shattered to pieces”) sounds similar to the Korean curse “씨발” (ssibal, equivalent to “f***”).

[2] The four skills mentioned before this are the basic skills for crosstalk.

[3] Bamboo clapper is also a basic skill that crosstalk actors must learn.