One afternoon, a group of city boys, too poor or untalented to enter noble schools but desperate for pride, spied Xue cooling crates of fish for villagers. Jealousy burned them. "Look at this fraud," one sneered loudly. "Pretending great by chilling fish. He thinks frost worth respect?" They began pelting him with pebbles, jeers echoing.
Leng Huan erupted in fury, spear drawn, but Xue lifted a hand to stop him. His gaze stayed calm. "If frost yields to mock, it shatters. Today we answer."
He stood, frost veil swelling outward. The boys shivered, laughter faltering as invisible chill seeped into marrow. Breath steamed white in spring air. One charged angrily but slipped instantly, legs numb. Xue sidestepped smoothly, binding frost thread around his ankle, toppling him without effort.
The others froze in fear as their friend lay groaning, teeth chattering. None found breath to scoff.
Xue's voice was even, not proud, not cruel. "Frost does not seek fight, but if others trample roots, they find ground too cold to stand." He released bind, stepping back. Slowly the boys fled, curses stumbling weaker than their trembling strides.
Villagers who witnessed muttered in awe. That choice to defend without malice, to endure until provoked, then strike calmly, reflected differently from rash southern pride. Even gossip across villages shifted—"That frost child not simple. He is not weak."
Inside Shrek leaves rustled. Elderly gatekeeper, sly eyes always watching, stroked beard and whispered to colleague, "The boy has discipline. He endures mockery, answers only when pushed. Perhaps monster enough after all."
That night, as Huan relished victory, Xue turned to Yan, saying softly: "Do not be proud. They will return with stronger fire. Frost's task is to last long enough so flame dies of its own." These words Yan etched faithfully into her book of frost heritage.