Looking at him like this, Zhao Wuya even started resenting the audience, saying, "What’s wrong with Brother Xuan? That voice is so magnetic, yet the audience found fault with it?
If I don’t shut them up one by one, it’s as if I didn’t have my at pie earlier."
"How capable are you, fighting here?" Yun Ziliang pulled Zhao Wuya aside, saying, "This storytelling is a grand path, if you can’t withstand a few heckles, then what’s the point? Look at Xuanzi, standing firm and unmoved, that’s what you call grace."
Yun Ziliang advised everyone to calm down, and Yu Zhengyuan and Xu Li were also feeling nervous for Zhou Xuan.
Equally worried were Yuan Buyu and Zhou Lingyi, who were listening to the storytelling through the Ancestor Tree connection.
"Elder Yuan, is there a chance my brother’s storytelling will flop?"
"Flop? That’s impossible. So storytellers rely on their voice, so rely on their looks, so are slick talkers who start with a bang to win attention,
these traits, my disciple has none, but he doesn’t need them. Storytelling is ultimately about telling tales,
the ups and downs of officialdom, tales of heroes and righteousness, strange rumors and secret histories, talents and beauties... Whether these stories can be made interesting, that’s the real skill."
Yuan Buyu also opened a folded fan, confidently saying, "Just right, my disciple excels precisely in this area, watch closely, I guarantee it’ll be a full house of applause."
Yuan Buyu understood both his disciple and storytelling well, and his rock-solid confidence eased most of Zhou Lingyi’s tension.
...
In the tropolitan Hall, Zhou Xuan lightly fanned himself, waiting for the audience’s uproar to die down enough, and as their voices gradually quieted, he snapped the fan shut with a clap, smiling as he said,
"To say that the audience in Mingjiang Prefecture doesn’t understand storytelling is not right either, after listening for a bit, they can tell my voice differs from those veterans,
but to say the audience in Mingjiang Prefecture understands storytelling is also wrong, storytelling isn’t like singing or opera, solely reliant on voice."
"Oh? A challenge?"
"Without mastering your craft, you first learn to question us, the audience."
"This young master has so presence, with so many people heckling him, not only does he remain calm, but he also turns the tables to teach us, what audacity."
"Whoa, this is soone who’s seen big scenes, even if his storytelling isn’t good today, his future is definitely bright."
For a mont, there were two main voices among the crowd, one entranced by Zhou Xuan’s calm under pressure and personal charm,
and the other feeling Zhou Xuan was challenging the audience’s understanding of storytelling, taking them head-on.
"Ah, I am indeed challenging."
Zhou Xuan said with a smile, "What is storytelling about, if not telling you things you haven’t heard? I’m young, but I’ve got a bellyful of knowledge, and later, the stories I’ll tell, I assure you none of you have heard or imagined them,
and moreover, these stories, I guarantee you’ll enjoy listening to. If I’ve uttered any boastful words, I’ll break this fan of mine right before you."
"Young Master, you have a long road ahead, don’t speak rashly."
An old book lover stood up and shouted to Zhou Xuan.
As an old book lover, he naturally understood the rules of storytellers—breaking a fan in front of the audience ant the storyteller was retiring from the profession and would never perform again.
This old man had listened to many stories, and he didn’t heckle earlier because he knows the growth cycle of storytellers is very long. Zhou Xuan is young, and although his performance has so flaws, he carries himself with grace, and his future is promising. It would be a sha if he ended his path here due to a mont of rashness.
"Old gentleman, thank you for your support, but I’m the kind of person who doesn’t take back words once spoken."
Zhou Xuan went to the table and rapped the gavel.
"Bang!"
The sound of the gavel quieted the crowd further.
Zhou Xuan spoke earnestly, "Today I won’t tell a long story or a short fiction. I’ll tell a piece I wrote myself. It contains insights from masters and dreams of mine. Upon waking, I recorded it and compiled it into a Chapter,
the fairy tales and ghost stories, the transformation of spirits into sages, are all illusions. I speak of them whimsically, and you may listen whimsically,
this story is called "Mortal Cultivation Chronicles."
The mont he revealed the title, the hall erupted in laughter, ridiculing the naivety of the title. Cultivation is cultivation; mortals are mortals. The idea of mortals cultivating is like a fool’s dream.
"Heavenly immortals, golden immortals, before achieving immortality, all are flesh and bone, so why can’t mortals cultivate?"
"Let’s leave off the idle chatter and move on to the main story."
Once again, Zhou Xuan rapped the gavel. After a crisp sound and while the audience was montarily dazed, he began his tale,
"It is said, that simpleton, with wide eyes, staring straight at the black roof made of thatch and mud, covered with an old cotton quilt, now a deep yellow..."
Zhou Xuan began narrating quietly,
The na ’simpleton’ caused another wave of laughter, but the laughter wasn’t as loud as before.
In "Mortal Cultivation Chronicles," Han Li, known by nicknas like "Old Devil Han" and "Han Paopao," was called ’simpleton’ by the villagers in his childhood.
Using a na like ’simpleton’ as the protagonist’s in a cultivation story, even if it’s just a nickna by the villagers, sounds childish, but in the venue, most people couldn’t laugh it off.
In these tis, there’s a saying that "an unpretentious na brings longevity." Regardless of how refined a child’s official na might be, there’s always a rustic nickna.
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