Beneath the stage, the audience broke into thunderous applause in unison.
In the contestants’ area, the others were all talking at once, offering their own commentary and speculating about the results.
“We’re done for—there’s no way to guess the rankings this time,” Bei He said, scratching his head. “This isn’t even a battle of comedy techniques anymore.”
“Innocence versus world-weariness, optimism versus pessimism—their styles are just too extreme,” Lu Fan commented. “Either one could win, and either one would deserve it. It all depends on which side the audience leans toward.”
Chu Duxiu and Cheng Junhua were two complete opposites. Both possessed humor and expressiveness, but their powerful personal styles overshadowed everything else. The former was a vivid, fantastical world full of childlike wonder and overflowing with vibrant, youthful energy. The latter resembled a classic, yellowed photograph—creased and weathered by rain, yet carrying the weight and depth of time.
This was something hard to compare—like black and white, day and night, morning light and evening glow. One could have a personal preference, but it wasn’t about right or wrong.
“Honestly, I don’t think the veteran’s material is that funny,” Scallion said hesitantly, looking puzzled. “I prefer the kind of jokes that blow up the atmosphere. But this time he even pulled out a pair of clappers… there’s this strange, bittersweet kind of humor—I don’t get it…”
Nie Feng said, “The key is, it was Cheng Junhua doing the clapper talk. Anyone else wouldn’t have been able to carry it.”
“I still prefer upbeat stuff. His performances always have this gloomy vibe,” Wang Nali groaned in frustration, burying her head in her hands. “Is it that I just can’t appreciate the greatness of stand-up comedy?”
As the people around continued to discuss animatedly, the two contestants themselves were quiet.
After coming off stage, Cheng Junhua sat alone in a front-row corner, silently waiting for the results. His back was straight, hands clenched tightly into fists resting on his legs. He hadn’t yet stepped out of performance mode—his whole body was still tense.
Chu Duxiu, on the other hand, sat among her teammates, not joining the ongoing chatter. She was still savoring her set from moments ago. Her eyes were unfocused, lips slightly pursed, seemingly lost in thought, her mind drifting off to some unknown place.
To be honest, she wasn’t thinking about winning or losing. Instead, a strange sense of insight welled up inside her—as if she had suddenly grasped something profound, and she kept rolling it over in her mind.
The veteran’s performance was like a massive boulder crashing down, forcefully smashing open the doors of her heart. In that instant, it was as if cold water had been poured over her head, jolting her awake—a sudden flash of inspiration.
It was a different way of seeing the world. Like someone at the foot of a mountain, who had always looked up and only seen the southern face of the peak—then suddenly, as if by magic, was moved to a new position and could now see the northern face too. Now, in her mind, the mountain had become three-dimensional. It was no longer a flat image, but a rotating 3D model—complete with both southern and northern views.
She had vaguely touched upon something, though she didn’t yet know what to do with it.
After the final contestant finished performing, the bottom-ranked participants in each group were about to be announced, completing the elimination round from sixteen to twelve.
Wang Nali was third from last in her group—barely avoiding elimination by a hair. She sighed with lingering fear, “I really scraped by… I’m always right at the edge of the poison zone—almost got killed by it again.”
Chu Duxiu had come back to herself by then and rejoined the conversation, smiling. “Scraping into the semifinals is still impressive.”
“But I really want a classic moment,” Wang Nali said with a sigh. “Like you guys—you know, the Comedy Kings of the Spring Festival Gala… the kind of punchlines people actually remember.”
Although there were fewer and fewer contestants left, not everyone had a recognizable identity or “label.” Many had advanced, but left little impression on the audience—they lacked online buzz. Unlike some who gave a stunning performance once and then flopped later, these players, even if eliminated early, still gained fame outside the show.
“You still have a shot in the semifinals,” Scallion said, glancing at the changing screen. Seeing Su Xinyi and the others walk onto the stage, he added quickly, “They’re here—they’re about to announce the rankings!”
Chu Duxiu and Wang Nali were briefly stunned, then quickly turned their eyes to the stage.
After the eliminated contestants gave their farewell speeches, it was time to announce who had advanced. Since they’d just come off stage, many lingered at the front, watching eagerly. One of them said, “No way—I might be eliminated, but I’m not leaving till I see the top three!”
“At the very least, I need to know who came first in the ‘Thought’ group!”
“I’m actually more nervous now than when I was waiting for my own elimination…”
The venue was getting noisy too. The audience was shouting with excitement—some were calling out “Chu Duxiu,” others were yelling “Cheng Junhua,” and some didn’t shout names at all, instead cheering “Keep relax!” or “Comedy Emperor!”
The place was in an uproar, absolute chaos.
Luo Qin, Su Xinyi, and the other guest judges watched this scene, feeling a little flustered and not sure whether to laugh or cry.
In front of the screens, Shang Xiaomei was speaking into her walkie-talkie, instructing the staff to keep a close eye on order and try to calm the audience down a bit. She said, “I have a feeling that after this episode airs, the internet is going to explode with arguments. No matter who wins this round, people won’t accept it.”
Xie Shenci said, “Setting aside the performance itself, if you just look at the votes, Mr. Cheng might actually be ahead. The contrast between this set and his previous ones was so huge—it gave the audience a real jolt, and that kind of impact adds something beyond the performance itself.”
Cheng Junhua had abandoned his past style, which in a way was an unexpected move that almost put him on equal footing with Chu Duxiu’s explosive set. In the past, he’d never been this uninhibited—there was always something a bit restrained about him. But today, he performed like someone at the end of his rope, laughter mixed with tears, perfectly matching the undercurrent of melancholy in the show’s theme.
What Scallion said wasn’t wrong. The surprise wasn’t just the content of the performance—it was also the fact that it came from Cheng Junhua. No one could have imagined he’d be pushed to this point, so of course it felt astonishing.
“If in the next round he keeps this level, it’ll be risky,” he analyzed unhurriedly. “The audience’s expectations have changed. The same tricks only work once—just like the clapper routine can only be used a single time.”
Cheng Junhua played his trump card during the semi-themed round, but that kind of move wouldn’t be as effective in later stages. People’s impression of him had changed too, and it was unlikely he could recreate the same impact again.
The powerful beat of sound effects echoed like drumbeats, and the stage lights flashed chaotically. On the screen, the list of advancing contestants from both groups was finally revealed. The new Top 12 was out, with live audience vote counts shown alongside.
Everyone held their breath, too tense to even check their own rankings. Instinctively, their eyes searched for the top of the list, and soon quiet murmurs broke out around the room.
“Another two-vote difference!”
“Oh my god, fate—this is just fate.”
“Honestly, that’s basically a tie. Two votes apart in a same-group showdown?”
As the results were announced, the whole venue burst into noise.
Cheng Junhua stared at the list. He let out a subtle breath of relief, unconsciously loosening his fingers. Only then did he finally lean back slowly into his seat.
Chu Duxiu had placed second. She stared at the two-vote gap, and instinctively raised her hands to applaud. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel regret or disappointment—it was just that in a game, there are always winners and losers. She quickly adjusted her mood.
The advancing contestants were called on stage one by one to give their remarks. Chu Duxiu, who ranked second, had to speak before Cheng Junhua.
“Do you feel a bit regretful?” Su Xinyi stepped forward for the interview, her eyes gentle as she asked softly, “When the results were announced, I saw you applauding.”
She had clearly just lost, yet she still clapped—it seemed a bit silly.
Chu Duxiu was briefly taken aback. She scratched her face and replied a little sheepishly, “Of course there’s a bit of regret, but it’s only about the final result. If I acted bitter about it, that would feel even more regrettable.”
No one likes to be outshone, but reality always has its ups and downs.
Fortunately, she had gotten used to it from a young age. Others being better than her was something she could accept—otherwise, life would be pretty miserable.
Luo Qin was taken aback. “That’s kind of philosophical.”
“It’s unbelievable—me, a journalism major, losing to Mr. Cheng who just reads the news,” Chu Duxiu joked, lightening the mood. “I lost not just in humor, but in my own field of study. I really hope my dissertation advisor doesn’t watch this episode—I haven’t even defended my thesis yet.”
The audience began to smile, and the atmosphere turned pleasant again, no longer charged with tension.
Once Chu Duxiu stepped down, it was Cheng Junhua’s turn to speak.
As she watched her teammate return, Wang Nali murmured, “She really has such a good mindset…”
Scallion nodded.
Since the beginning of the competition, Chu Duxiu had rarely tasted defeat. Especially with such a narrow margin this time—anyone else would’ve needed a moment to recover, wouldn’t have been able to crack jokes right away or smooth over the mood.
“Ah, no, I can’t watch this,” Bei He said, covering his eyes and speaking in a muffled voice. “Suddenly I feel like she should’ve won.”
Lu Fan looked confused. “What’s wrong? Why are your eyes red?”
“I got emotional. It reminded me of things from the past—she clearly…” He thought about the recording, then waved it off. “Forget it, I’m not saying it.”
Others simply thought Chu Duxiu was gracious and knew how to lose well, but Bei He—who had always been good at reading the room—somehow deeply grasped what she was feeling in that moment.
It wasn’t that she felt no bitterness—but what good would it do?
Was she supposed to resent the person who defeated her?
Better to just smile and let it go.
The romance of an optimist lies in the courage to keep things moving with a smile, knowing the sun will rise again tomorrow.
Cheng Junhua’s performance and inner self merged on stage, while Chu Duxiu’s performance and inner self merged off stage.
After the semi-themed round ended, the Top 12 contestants were allowed a brief rest. But their regular duties were far from light—aside from shooting posters and doing interviews, they also had to prepare material for the semi-finals and finals. Well-known contestants sometimes even had to shoot commercials, leaving them completely swamped.
The production team announced that the finals would be broadcast live across the entire internet, and the rounds from Top 8 to Top 4, and then from 4 to 1, would both be recorded. Two consecutive competitions would make it even more intense.
From morning to night, Chu Duxiu barely had a moment’s rest. If she wasn’t at the studio shooting promotional content, she was zoning out in the car trying to come up with jokes. Her eyes were practically glazed over every day, her mind floating somewhere in the void—barely holding it together amid the endless stream of tasks.
She didn’t have time to dwell on her semi-themed round loss. Instead, she seized every spare moment to space out, trying hard to hold on to that moment of insight she’d had that day. It was something fleeting—gone in a flash—so she carried a small notebook with her, jotting down thoughts and sketches whenever inspiration struck, hoping to brew something out of it.
Of course, the downside of overusing her brain was that her mental state looked worse and worse.
Thankfully, many contestants were in the same boat. Even veteran performers like Bei He showed signs of fatigue—let alone newcomers experiencing the competition for the first time.
In the hotel lobby, Chu Duxiu sat as usual on the sofa, waiting for her ride. Because her popularity outside the show had surged, her agent had taken on several commercial deals for her, which heavily ate into her creative time.
At first, she suspected that the agent was afraid she’d leave without signing a contract and was trying to squeeze her dry during the show. But later she found out that Cheng Junhua, Bei He, and others were also loaded with ad work, and realized it was just an unavoidable part of the game.
When the show aired, it was the peak of visibility for performers—maximum exposure meant maximum opportunities. Miss that wave, and you’re out of luck.
Today, Chu Duxiu had a solo shoot, and only Xie Shenci stood by the sofa, keeping her company for a bit before she met with the agent.
“You don’t seem quite yourself lately,” Xie Shenci said cautiously, watching her zone out for a long time without speaking. “Are you still thinking about the last round?”
After the semi-themed round, Chu Duxiu became much quieter. Although she had spoken calmly during her post-performance remarks, afterwards her mind would often wander and her gaze grew vacant.
Chu Duxiu nodded instinctively. “Yes.”
Lately, she had been iterating constantly, trying to absorb some strengths from Cheng Junhua’s performance to upgrade her own. Her mental CPU often felt overloaded.
He paused thoughtfully for a few seconds and then comforted her, “One round of competition isn’t a big deal. Sometimes it depends on the audience—it’s not something to worry too much about.”
Chu Duxiu looked puzzled.
He wouldn’t actually think she was lamenting the loss, would he?
Suddenly snapping back to reality, she carefully studied Xie Shenci’s face. His expression was calm, but his lips were pressed tight, as if a little worried. She abruptly tossed aside her jokes and mischievously decided to tease him.
“No way. Losing is losing. My stand-up comedy dream is shattered, and I’ll never recover.”
Chu Duxiu sighed deeply and slumped sideways, as if hit by a car, collapsing on the sofa. She shamelessly played the victim, moaning, “This is a work injury caused by the production team—my spirit has a comminuted fracture. Mr. Xie, you owe me compensation.”
Xie Shenci blinked, “?”
