Daylight faded and the evening glow gradually receded. Tree branches appeared as black silhouettes in the dim light, while the office buildings along the roadside were brightly lit. The illuminated grid-like windows resembled floating sky lanterns, standing out strikingly in the twilight of Yancheng.
The training session was scheduled for six in the evening. Chu Duxiu arrived early. After collecting the course materials from the front row, she found a seat to wait for the session to begin, taking the opportunity to observe her surroundings.
On the glass wall was the Shanle Culture logo — a design that fused a standing microphone with a sunflower. The room looked much like an ordinary training classroom, except for a camera in the corner, currently switched off.
People began to enter the room one after another, gathering in small groups and chatting.
One participant stepped into the classroom, glanced around at the others, and declared in a booming voice, “Aren’t we all on the same team here!”
“Whoa, you’re here too. Heading to Hongyan Theater tomorrow?”
“Nope. Haven’t finished writing my new set yet.”
The stand-up comedy scene in Yancheng was small to begin with. Some of the trainees belonged to the same club, others had run into each other while performing at various venues — they basically all knew each other by name. In no time, the room was buzzing with chatter.
Chu Duxiu quickly realized that arriving early had been a mistake. The main issue was that everyone around her already knew one another and were now chatting away enthusiastically. Only she sat awkwardly amidst the cheerful banter, completely out of place.
Fortunately, she wasn’t the only outsider.
“Damn, how does everyone already know each other…” A girl in a baseball cap arrived late, muttering quietly to herself as she scanned the remaining seats, her gaze landing beside Chu Duxiu.
Perhaps there’s such a thing as telepathy between girls — especially in a class where the male-to-female ratio was 3:1. Their eyes met, and that alone was enough to exchange an unspoken message.
Chu Duxiu understood instantly. She moved her backpack into the drawer, freeing up the seat next to her.
“Thanks.”
The girl took off her cap, revealing messy braided pigtails. A bit of sweat glistened on her forehead as she sat down, clearly windblown from travel. She had probably just arrived in Yancheng — she casually tossed a blue high-speed rail ticket and a hotel key card into a document pouch before finally getting the chance to look over the training camp materials.
Chu Duxiu was slightly surprised. She hadn’t expected Shanle Training Camp to be impressive enough to attract out-of-town performers.
The girl with the braids was the first to speak. “Are you a performer from Yancheng too?”
Chu Duxiu quickly said, “No, I’m not…”
She really wasn’t a performer — she was just here to sit in on the class.
Just then, Scallion entered the room from outside. The moment he spotted Chu Duxiu, he lit up and greeted her enthusiastically. “Honey-glazed chicken rice! You came to the class too?”
“…”
Chu Duxiu was stunned by the greeting. She gave a stiff little wave, caught off guard for two reasons: first, she didn’t expect Scallion to remember her at all, and second, she had no idea where that bizarre nickname came from. Honey-glazed chicken rice was her favorite dish at Typoon Transit — but how had it become her stage name?
“You two know each other?” the girl with the braided pigtails asked. “You’re both performers from the same club?”
“No…” Chu Duxiu struggled to explain, then said, “If you really want to put it that way — I guess we’re from the same menu.”
“?”
After calling out to her, Scallion went straight over to another group of performers and began chatting with them about recent happenings. Chu Duxiu recognized most of the people around him — they were all from the Typoon Transit club. She had only just started learning stand-up comedy, but after years of hanging around the bar, she was familiar with quite a few of the performers’ faces.
Not long after, another familiar figure appeared at the doorway — a skinny man wearing a painter’s cap, instantly recognizable by his small goatee.
Someone exclaimed in surprise, “String Bean is here too? Weren’t you and Mr. Nie…”
String Bean waved his hand casually, clearly unwilling to elaborate. He hadn’t even picked up the course materials, just slouched into a seat at the front. His face was expressionless, and he held a pack of cigarettes, tapping it absentmindedly. He was a far cry from the energetic persona he had backstage at the MCN gala.
But the people around him erupted in chatter, like water dripping into hot oil — a sizzling burst all at once.
“Even String Bean came to study — how are the rest of us supposed to survive!”
“Watch, the moment the bell rings, he’ll walk up and start teaching! He’s probably the instructor in disguise!”
“Hey, String Bean, I really love your performances — can I get your autograph?”
String Bean raised his eyes slowly. Seeing the man before him brimming with anticipation, he finally waved a hand and picked up a pen to sign his name. Amid the man’s grateful thanks, he stood up and said, “I’m stepping out for a smoke.”
“You got it!” The man excitedly put away his notebook and continued making his way around, collecting more autographs from other performers.
Chu Duxiu was always quiet by nature, and now she watched the scene unfold in silence. Although the training camp only had about thirty people, subtle cliques were already forming. Seasoned performers with experience drew admiration, local comedians active in Yancheng naturally gravitated toward one another, and the rest were the nameless, unfamiliar newcomers.
She had never considered herself a performer, so being overlooked didn’t bother her — but the same couldn’t be said for the girl beside her.
The girl with the braided pigtails straightened her back slightly as she watched the man go around collecting autographs from the front row. She was clearly preparing herself, waiting for him to come over — only to see him suddenly turn away and skip their table entirely, heading straight to the veteran performers seated in the back.
His movements were smooth and natural, barely drawing anyone’s attention.
The girl beside her froze. Her back slowly hunched, and her head drooped, like a blade of grass beaten down by cold rain.
For a moment, Chu Duxiu hated her own ability to empathize. If only she were more oblivious, she wouldn’t have noticed any of this. Her empathy always kicked in at the worst possible moments. For example, whenever she read those “face-slapping” power fantasy webnovels, the character she identified with was never the brilliant, unbeatable protagonist — but the mediocre, pitiful side character who got humiliated. As a result, she never got any satisfaction from reading them.
Just like now — she wasn’t embarrassed that no one had asked for her autograph, but somehow she still understood exactly what the girl next to her was feeling.
“Um…” Chu Duxiu slid a piece of paper across and asked politely, “Sorry to bother you, but I really enjoyed your performance. Could you sign this for me?”
“You’ve watched my act?” the girl with the braided pigtails blinked in surprise, then suspiciously asked, “Is that for real? Then what’s my name?”
Chu Duxiu kept her face calm and replied, “Beauty.”
“…”
The girl burst out laughing, her earlier gloom evaporating. She gave a thumbs-up in genuine admiration. “Brilliant! You’ve got skills!”
Their shared joke broke the ice, and they used the moment to introduce themselves.
The girl with the braided pigtails raised her voice, as if she’d finally found a kindred spirit — her voice bright and cheerful like a songbird. After signing her name for Chu Duxiu, she solemnly handed over her notebook and said, “Actually, I really like your performance too. Mind signing this for me?”
Chu Duxiu nodded easily. “Of course — mutual support, mutual signatures.”
After signing and handing the notebook back, she glanced at the bold black characters on the page: the braided girl had signed her name as Nali.
“So your name’s Chu Duxiu? That’s your real name, isn’t it?” Wang Nali squinted at the handwriting and muttered, “I thought you were called Honey-Glazed Chicken Rice.”
“…That was nonsense. I haven’t picked a stage name.”
Wang Nali was a textbook stand-up comedian. At first, she’d been too shy to speak, but now the words were pouring out of her like a flood. She seemed eager to share everything with Chu Duxiu — from her hometown to her college major, from everyday life to stand-up material — with animated expressions and lively gestures, like she was in the middle of a performance. She had only graduated a year ago, usually performed in other cities, and had just arrived in Yancheng that very day for the training program.
After listening, Chu Duxiu couldn’t help but feel a deep respect. They were around the same age, but she didn’t have Wang Nali’s kind of courage — to come to Yancheng all alone, especially when her comedy career hadn’t taken off yet, and she wasn’t even part of a regular stand-up club.
“To be honest,” Wang Nali sighed, “back in my hometown, there’s not even a proper venue for performances, let alone a comedy club. So I’ve been thinking about whether I should move to Yancheng to pursue this… but the rent is so expensive…”
Chu Duxiu asked curiously, “Do you really like doing this?”
“Of course I do! When I first got into stand-up, there weren’t even any shows around yet!”
Chu Duxiu nodded in understanding. Her new friend had probably come here for a dream — but she herself was different. She didn’t even dare to dream.
Wang Nali asked, “So how did you get into stand-up?”
Chu Duxiu answered honestly, “My mental state wasn’t great at the time. I desperately needed to go a little unhinged to vent my emotions — that’s how I found it.”
“???”
A moment later, the training camp instructor, Lu Fan, appeared. She looked to be in her thirties, dressed in a casual shirt with a stack of teaching materials in her arms — the picture of a modern urban woman, not much different from her on-screen image. It was said that her day job was as an English teacher.
The moment she entered the room, she was met with a raucous welcome, almost as if the entire class might flip the place over.
“Whoa—our celebrity instructor—!”
“A female star is here!”
“Ms. Lu, I’m a huge fan!”
Lu Fan quickly raised her hands to stop them, flustered and overwhelmed. “Thank you, thank you — you’re scaring me! I’m not worthy, really!”
Some of the trainees were already familiar with Lu Fan, and they egged her on playfully from their seats. They weren’t necessarily less experienced than she was in performing — but unlike them, she’d already been on TV. So rather than a formal welcome for a teacher, the atmosphere felt more like friends teasing one of their own.
“Teaching this stand-up comedy class feels just like teaching a study-abroad prep course,” Lu Fan said helplessly. “I earn maybe ten, twenty thousand a month teaching them how to study abroad and make big money, while the students sitting below are already loaded — their families were worth hundreds of millions ages ago. They’re being educated in English, and I’m getting schooled by society.”
She sighed, “This class is the same. On the surface I’m the teacher, but in reality, I’m the one being tortured.”
The class burst into laughter.
“Alright, alright, roast me all you want — just make sure it’s funny,” Lu Fan clapped her hands to bring everyone to order. “At least let it serve as material for the class. Now, let’s have some introductions. Since you’ve all come from different corners of the country, and there are so few people doing stand-up in China, I think this isn’t just a learning opportunity — it’s also a chance to make new friends. Who knows, maybe in the future, you’ll always have a classmate to meet up with when you travel somewhere.”
It was clear Lu Fan had taught many classes before — she quickly warmed up the atmosphere and encouraged the students to introduce themselves one by one, occasionally interacting with the newer performers and asking about fun stories from their hometowns.
“She’s really down-to-earth,” Wang Nali whispered.
Chu Duxiu nodded. With the instructor helping to bridge the gap, the tension between the newcomers and veteran performers gradually began to ease.
After the introductions, the first lesson was quite solid. Lu Fan began with theory, occasionally citing examples from shows, patiently breaking down joke structures for the students.
“Let’s start with the basics — why do people laugh? Does anyone know?” Lu Fan glanced around, shrugged, and said, “Okay, no one’s answering, so I’ll ask and answer myself.”
“There are several theories about laughter, such as the superiority theory, relief theory, and incongruity theory. Applied to joke writing, the main reason we laugh is because what happens is different from what you expected. This contrast releases your tension, and that’s when you laugh.”
“This mechanism is called ‘expectation violation.’ Those who have written jokes will notice that we usually write a long setup, then deliver a punchline at the end. The punchline is the funny part — your ‘gag.’ It breaks the expectations built by the setup, surprising the audience and making them laugh.”
“We often mine jokes from negative attitudes, such as stupidity, oddness, fear, and so on, because negative emotions create tension. This tension gives space for the punchline to relieve it, which easily creates humor…”
Chu Duxiu scribbled furiously in her notebook from her seat, occasionally snapping photos of the PPT slides. The training class moved faster than she had expected. After the instructor finished explaining the components of a setup — “setup = theme + attitude + premise” — she began teaching common comedy formats, such as puns, the rule of three, and so on, focusing on quantity to satisfy appetite.
She had thought the comedy class would help her relax, but instead it made her feel even more tense.
Before she knew it, night had thickened outside the window, and the ninety-minute class was over — just enough to catch up with a professional course at uni.
By the end of this session, her soul felt thoroughly cleansed.
During the break, Wang Nali was dizzy from all the information, her gaze growing unfocused. She asked, “Are you understanding any of this?”
Chu Duxiu shook her head painfully. “I thought I came to learn how to make people laugh, but it turns out I’m the one being laughed at. I wanted to study jokes, but the joke is me.”
Fortunately, the first lesson was theory; the second lesson would be practice, focusing on actual performance.
In class, Lu Fan suggested, “We’ve covered enough theory for now. Let’s give it a try — use what we just learned to write a short set. Anyone willing to volunteer?”
The room fell completely silent; everyone looked down.
“Seriously? So many experienced performers, so many seasoned artists, and none of you want to cooperate?” Lu Fan chuckled wryly. “You’ve probably got years of jokes saved up compared to the newbies.”
The veteran performers in the front row just laughed it off, still unwilling to pick up her cue.
“Fine then, I’ll pick someone I like,” Lu Fan said, glancing down at the list and calling out, “Chu Duxiu.”
“…”
Chu Duxiu felt utterly crushed inside. Was this some unavoidable curse of college students — the passive skill of always getting called on in class?
Why do stand-up comedians love calling people out by name so openly?!
After Scallion’s open mic performance, Chu Duxiu was called up for the second time!
“Is Duxiu here?”
Chu Duxiu had no choice but to stand up and replied dryly, “Miss, whatever you like about me, I can change it.”
Seeing her earnest expression, Lu Fan smiled gently and said, “It’s exactly that rebellious kind of humor I like about you.”
“?”
