Chu Duxiu gained a deeper understanding of Xie Shenci: a man as beautiful in appearance as he was kind at heart, with a touch of austere detachment and an occasional penchant for deadpan humor.
No matter what, the fact that Mr. Xie was willing to humble himself and publicly elevate her status to put GM Wang in his place filled her with boundless gratitude.
Suddenly, she remembered a free-roaming black cat from her childhood backyard—elegant and agile, skilled at climbing and hunting. It never softened into coquettishness, nor did it meow all day long. Its gaze was always steady and sharp, its paws and belly snowy white, like a gentleman in a tailcoat.
No one could command it, and it never fawned over anyone. Yet, when Chu Duxiu was once cornered by stray dogs, it stood on a tree branch, hissing loudly to scare them off. Only after the strays fled did it leisurely settle back down, not even sparing her an extra glance, resuming its sunbathing as usual.
Though it was just a big black cat, in her heart, it was the undisputed big brother—while she was the hapless little sidekick.
Now, Xie Shenci’s image had almost completely merged with that of the big black cat in her mind.
Outside the theater, the daylight had dimmed, and rolling clouds along the horizon were dyed in hues of pink and purple. The dusk softened the outlines of everything, leaving only the gentle flow of the evening breeze.
Xie Shenci walked out with Chu Duxiu and said, “The payment will take a couple of days—there’s some paperwork to process before the transfer.”
“Got it, no rush,” she replied. Noticing he was still following her, she added, “No need to see me off, Mr. Xie. You must have things to attend to.”
“How are you getting back?”
“By subway.”
“I’ll walk you to the station,” he said casually. “It’s a bit stuffy inside. I could use some air.”
The subway station was only a few hundred meters away—just a short stroll through the garden path, past the theater’s outer gate, and the destination would be visible beyond the railings. The evening sky was clear and vibrant, and walking leisurely in the cool breeze was far more pleasant than being cooped up indoors.
Chu Duxiu didn’t press him further, and the two walked slowly toward the exit, chatting about the earlier performance.
“I didn’t expect you to be different onstage compared to offstage,” Xie Shenci remarked. “You seemed so confident up there—not like your usual self at all.”
The first time he’d seen her perform at Typoon Transit, he’d been struck by her raw, exhilarating energy. Unlike her gentle and unassuming appearance, her comedic timing was impeccable, full of controlled intensity. If words were soft blades, she wielded them like a master—effortless yet razor-sharp.
Yet who would’ve guessed that offstage, this same person would nervously sip beer, fretting over potential mishaps, and generally hold back far more in daily life?
“The confidence is all an act,” Chu Duxiu muttered. “Besides, of course stage and real life are different.”
“Why?”
“Because onstage, if you offend someone, the audience won’t punch you. If I talked like that in real life, I’d basically be asking for a beating.”
Xie Shenci chuckled. “This is a society governed by law. No one’s going to hit you. You could talk like that normally.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe once I’ve taken enough combat classes to get ripped, or become some big-shot celebrity, I’ll dare to speak my mind freely.” She hesitated. “…Though honestly, the combat classes seem more achievable.”
“Why not consider stand-up comedy? If you’re confident onstage, that’s clearly your comfort zone.”
Chu Duxiu let out a long sigh. “Mr. Xie, you really don’t miss a chance, do you? Is the comedy scene that desperate for talent?”
She had to admire Xie Shenci’s persistence. They’d barely exchanged more than a few sentences, yet most of his words had been spent trying to recruit her into stand-up.
“We’re short on talent now, but that might not last. That’s why I think it’d be a real shame if you didn’t join the industry,” Xie Shenci said earnestly. “I wasn’t exaggerating earlier—you really do have potential in stand-up. With some refinement and more stage experience, your skill level could be completely different.”
“I don’t see it,” she frowned skeptically. “I think you’re overestimating me. I genuinely don’t have that kind of potential.”
“That’s just poor judgment on your part—you can’t recognize your own talent.”
“???”
Chu Duxiu was torn between irritation and amusement. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”
Xie Shenci replied with steady calm, “It’s completely normal to feel like you’ve accomplished nothing in the first couple years after graduation. But look back after some time passes, and you’ll realize nothing was ever as bad as it seemed.”
Chu Duxiu froze, his words like the cool evening breeze at dusk, effortlessly smoothing away her hidden anxieties.
His tone was casual, yet carried an inexplicable persuasiveness. If anyone else had said it, it might have just been warm encouragement—but spoken in his measured, detached way, it sounded like an irrefutable truth of the universe.
Unlike the typical motivational “just keep working hard and the future will be better” platitudes, Xie Shenci’s approach was faster, sharper, and more surgical. It was as if an AI with flawless predictive algorithms had deadpanned, “Statistically speaking, improvement is inevitable. No further debate required.”
She had to admit—though it lacked warmth, this kind of reassurance hit harder than any human comfort ever could.
A moment later, the subway station came into view. Xie Shenci handed her the document folder he’d been carrying. “This is for you.”
Chu Duxiu had noticed him holding it the whole way but never expected it to be for her. “What is it?” she asked curiously.
“A commemorative notebook from our company. Feel free to throw it away if you don’t want it.”
“Thanks. Did your company print these themselves?” She took the folder, its matte translucent surface bearing the Shanle Culture logo, faintly revealing a notebook and pen inside.
Xie Shenci nodded, then added, “I think I was wrong about something earlier.”
“What?”
“Today when you asked if I ever get nervous… I said no.”
The skies over Yancheng always wore muted hues—pale blue and smoky purple blending into the twilight haze. The streetlamp at the corner flickered on, casting golden light in all directions.
Hearing his words, Chu Duxiu looked up at Xie Shenci.
Under the glow, his eyes were like obsidian, veiled with the mist of night. When their gazes met, his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly. “But walking here just now… I was a little nervous. Mostly unsure if I could change your mind.”
The night breeze swirled; leaves whispered in the trees. They said their goodbyes on the sidewalk.
Chu Duxiu watched Xie Shenci’s figure disappear into the distance and thought he really did resemble that black cat from her childhood—enigmatic, solitary, impossible to predict, yet always somehow reappearing in the shade on lazy summer days, as if by magic.
She opened the document folder and flipped through it absently, pulling out a pristine white booklet. On the cover, it read: “Shanle Stand-Up Comedy Training Camp Application Form.”
The dorm room was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, the only illumination in the deepening night.
Chu Duxiu sat with headphones on, her laptop open as she watched a comedy special, occasionally jotting notes on a sheet of paper. She had binge-watched the entire season of The Stand-Up King in one go—so engrossed that she didn’t even notice her roommate passing by until a voice broke her focus.
“Xiuxiu, you’re watching The Stand-Up King?”
“Yeah, just checking it out.”
Her roommate paused, glancing at the screen before leaning in with sudden interest. “Who’s your favorite comedian? I love Lu Fan—she’s hilarious.”
Chu Duxiu tilted her head. “Because her material is well-written?”
“Exactly. Her jokes have such tight structure, you know? It’s not just cringe-worthy delivery masking weak writing.”
Nodding in understanding, Chu Duxiu humored her roommate’s enthusiasm, exchanging a few more thoughts about the show before the conversation naturally tapered off.
After returning to campus, she searched online for “Shanle Stand-Up Comedy Training Camp” and discovered it was an actor development program established by Shanle Culture. Boasting seasoned comedians from The Stand-Up King as instructors—including Lu Fan—the camp offered free tuition, covering not just comedy writing but also providing access to live open-mic venues. Applicants only needed to fill out the registration form and email a stand-up performance video for screening; accepted candidates would receive a notification.
Though Xie Shenci’s persuasion hadn’t inflated her ego to the point of believing the industry needed her—taking polite flattery as gospel would’ve been downright foolish—today’s events had sparked something. GM Wang, who knew nothing about stand-up, had actually reversed his decision to hire her. Even if things ended badly, it proved her performance held merit. Otherwise, why would he bother arguing with her at all?
If that was the case, learning more couldn’t hurt. Even if she never pursued it professionally, it’d be a skill worth having. One day, it might just come in handy.
Chu Duxiu filled out the application form, clipped a segment from her gala performance video, and sent the package to the training camp’s email.
The stand-up comedy classes were held in the evenings, allowing her to continue preparing for her civil service exams during the day—nothing would be disrupted.
Inside an office building, the glass walls of the workspace were adorned with the Shanle Culture logo—a sleek, three-dimensional microphone design seamlessly integrated with the company name. Behind the bright glass panels, rows of desks and chairs were neatly arranged, with audio equipment and a large screen at the front.
This was the venue for the Shanle Stand-Up Comedy Training Camp, where the organizers were finalizing the list of accepted applicants. They had recruited participants nationwide, selecting them based on application forms and performance videos, offering training free of charge.
Shang Xiaomei, the show’s chief director, rubbed her hands together excitedly as she reviewed the applications. “I hope we can uncover some promising talent for the show through this camp.”
That was the primary goal of the training—with so few stand-up comedians in the country, they needed to cultivate more quickly to gather a full roster of a hundred contestants.
“Though I never expected I’d be teaching,” Lu Fan sighed. “I’ve taught English before, but never stand-up comedy.”
Lu Fan was an English teacher by profession, with stand-up comedy as her passion. In recent years, she had collaborated with fellow enthusiasts to translate foreign comedy technique books and participated in recording the first season of The Stand-Up King, gaining some popularity—which eventually led to her being invited as an instructor.
“You’ve translated so many books—you’ll be just fine,” Shang Xiaomei reassured her. “Besides, having Nie Feng or the others teach would be even less reliable. They’d probably turn all the trainees’ routines into cornbread-and-cabbage dialect sketches!”
Shang Xiaomei, dressed in sporty attire, had a bright smile and spoke with brisk enthusiasm. In contrast, Lu Fan wore an intellectual-style long dress with gold-rimmed glasses, her words measured and soft-spoken. The two chatted and laughed as they rustled through the materials.
Shang Xiaomei pulled out a white booklet and exclaimed, “Wow, I really admire this comedian—I didn’t expect them to sign up for the classes!”
The training camp primarily targeted newcomers lacking theoretical foundations, but it also attracted quite a few seasoned open-mic performers.
“Let me see—is this one called Scallion? From Mr. Nie’s club?” Lu Fan tilted her head for a glance before leisurely pulling out another application. “I know him, but I’m more impressed by this one…”
Just then, the glass door swung open. Xie Shenci stepped into the classroom in a tailored suit.
Shang Xiaomei’s eyes lit up with mischief at the sight of him. “Well, well, the ‘Suit-and-Tie Tyrant’ returns.”
Lu Fan dipped her head respectfully. “Mr. Xie.”
Xie Shenci gave them a silent nod in greeting.
As Xie’s senior by several years and later his business partner, Shang Xiaomei addressed him with far more familiarity. “Brutal move, really. Complaints have reached me—apparently our ‘unapproachable’ President Xie showed zero regard for veteran performers’ pride, strong-arming them into attending these classes.”
As the show’s producer, Shang Xiaomei inevitably heard industry gossip. Recently, Xie Shenci had revoked some veterans’ automatic qualification privileges, requiring them to join the training camp alongside newcomers—a decision that had quietly sparked discontent.
The issue wasn’t earth-shattering, but resentment simmered. These performers, many of whom had started out as hobbyists and shared club stages for years, now found themselves divided—some breezing past auditions while others had to retrain, creating an unspoken hierarchy.
“Since none of you want to play the villain, I’m left holding the black hat.” Xie Shenci arched an eyebrow. “We all know their material won’t make the cut—their performance style doesn’t translate to screen. But everyone’s too polite to say it outright. If they don’t train now, they’ll crash harder during recording.”
“The main issue is we’re already short on contestants,” Shang Xiaomei sighed. “Push them too hard, and we’ll lose people. Besides, it stings when you’re from the same club—watching friends breeze through auditions while you’re stuck retraining. That’s brutal.”
China’s stand-up scene was still in its infancy. Many performers had persevered purely on passion; being told they weren’t good enough inevitably bruised egos.
Xie Shenci challenged, “If you think this is cruel, why implement eliminations? Unless I’m mistaken, your show format axes contestants every episode.”
Shang Xiaomei shrugged, unrepentant. “That’s dramatic tension—cruelty belongs onscreen. Wasting it behind the scenes is just poor storytelling!”
Lu Fan murmured, “…So this is how directors systematically torment comedians.”
Xie Shenci lowered his gaze, noticing the stack of pristine white application booklets on the table, and deftly shifted the topic. “These are the accepted trainees?”
“Yes, we were just discussing them.”
The pile looked substantial at a glance, but flipping through didn’t take long. Xie Shenci skimmed the list once, then picked up the booklet again, double-checking the names as if conducting a second round of review.
For a moment, the room fell silent save for the rustling of paper. The other two exchanged puzzled glances.
Lu Fan, baffled, finally asked, “What is Mr. Xie looking for?”
Shang Xiaomei pointed out, “This is the third time.”
Xie Shenci kept turning the pages, his intensity suggesting the booklets might contain hidden checks or cash—as if missing a single page would spell disaster.
“Nothing.”
Failing to find the name he sought, a flicker of disappointment crossed his expression.
Xie Shenci wasn’t involved in trainee selection, so if her name wasn’t here, it could only mean she hadn’t applied at all. Though he’d anticipated this outcome, a twinge of disappointment lingered. He considered pressing the issue again but hesitated—what if she found him bothersome?
Relentless persuasion wasn’t his style, and for now, he had no new strategy.
The others, oblivious to his silence, watched him pace before resuming their conversation.
“Ignore him,” Shang Xiaomei waved a hand. “He’s always like this—all icy detachment. Let’s talk.”
Lu Fan, flipping through her booklet, brightened. “Oh—I really like this one. Her delivery is so natural.”
“Let me see… Wow, what a name. ‘Duxiu’? As in ‘peerless’?”
Xie Shenci froze mid-step. His head snapped up, and he reached for the booklet with startling urgency. “Let me see that.”
Shang Xiaomei, who’d assumed he wasn’t listening, nearly jumped at his sudden movement. As he took the form, she gaped. “Wow, Mr. Xie. Such revolutionary fervor. I didn’t realize you’d salute so hard for a namesake of the Party’s founding leader.”
