Leng Xue had already been sitting outside Shrek's gates for more than a month. Patience came almost too naturally to him, as if carved into his soul from another life. The other rejected students had all left long ago, some in despair, some in anger. Yet the frost child remained, never shouting demands, never begging for entry. Each day he sat, aura of cold radiating faintly, silent enough that villagers came to rely on him far more than those within the broken walls.
Spring had turned warmer, yet his Frost Veil kept small radius cool, preserving food and easing discomfort of beasts hauling wagons. Each time a merchant or villager benefitted, they whispered of the strange northern boy who looked aloof but never refused a favor. Zi Zhu, sly gatekeeper of Shrek, drank wine and smirked whenever he passed Xue. "Still waiting? Shrek doesn't change its rules," he teased. But behind words, he felt grudging respect. Few in the world could endure humiliation without flinching.
Inside, the teachers had begun to speak of him more. Zhao Wuji scoffed at first, calling him a stubborn rock. Flender, the dean, only raised brow lazily when gatekeeper mentioned how villagers protected the boy in return. But it was not until cargo for Shrek's own kitchen nearly spoiled from early heatwave that true consideration arrived. They discovered sacks of fish and meat impossible to preserve in cracked storerooms had remained fresh because Leng Xue quietly reinforced them with Frost Veil every night, without request, without pay, without announcement.
That evening, Flender himself came out casually, his hawk‑like eyes gleaming behind glasses. He stood before Xue, who opened calm eyes at presence of immense spirit pressure. The dean measured him long, then spoke slowly. "Tell me, boy. You know rules. Too old, too low rank. Why keep sitting here, humiliating yourself?"
Xue bowed slightly, voice steady, not breaking. "A root does not retreat because soil is hard. It waits. Shrek rejects me, yet I do not blame. If gate remains closed, I will stay outside until soil breaks. My frost does not demand glory, only place to preserve."
Flender chuckled, not kindly but not cruel. "You talk philosophy like you're an old man." His eyes narrowed. "But monsters are those who break rules. You would still sit even if it took year?"
Xue's tone never wavered. "Even lifetimes."
The silence afterward stretched long. Finally Flender shook head, amusement glinting faint. "Endless patience. Maybe monster indeed." That night, he spoke privately with Zhao Wuji, "Perhaps we test quietly. Not an exam. A trial in shadow."
Thus began the silent trial.
The next days Shrek's instructors arranged quiet provocations. Bandits supposedly threatening caravans appeared; these were disciples disguised. Merchants carrying grain claimed sudden illness. Shrek's livestock pens broke and animals scattered. Each time, Xue was forced into action without knowing it was orchestrated. And each time, he acted not to impress but simply to preserve. His frost cooled grain, healed feverish child, herded beasts gently by layering cold on ground to turn paths.
Instructors watching from shadows murmured. Discipline firm. Patience absolute. Not once did he curse or boast. Zhao Wuji muttered gruffly, "The boy might be lower rank, but damn if he doesn't act exactly how monster creed demands: different, unyielding."
For Xue, these tasks felt natural. Never did he suspect teachers were testing. He simply lived by creed of clan—protect roots, endure flame, preserve soil. That was enough.
On seventh evening, when he returned to hut exhausted, frost mist trailing faint, he saw gatekeeper waiting unusually solemn. "Boy," he said after studying him, "tomorrow you come inside. Dean Flender says frost has earned at least a word."
Leng Xue lowered eyes briefly, whispering in silence to himself, "Frost waited. Gate cracked. Ancestor, we step further."