Shrek's training yard was alive again with noise. Tang San and Dai Mubai clashed in violent spar at center, the blue silver grass tangling like living net while white tiger flared gold light. Other students shouted, excitement ringing in air. In a corner, however, Leng Xue stood silently, not a figure that drew eyes, but every student shifting unconsciously whenever his frost veil widened. The air cooled near him, slowing the rush of heat buried in field.
He did not demand spotlight. He watched Tang San carefully—the boy's expression composed, his timing perfect, his patience astonishing in youth. Every movement reminded Leng Xue of himself, only sharper, more natural. They had spoken little beyond respectful nods but he already sensed destiny weaving threads around them. He knew without question that this boy was the fire to his frost, the grass blade that rooted alongside his silent snow.
Students dismissed spar eventually, praise heaped on Tang San's control. Leng Xue caught another student sneer toward him, whispering, "That frost boy barely shines." He did not answer, only exhaled calmly. But when that sneering youth later sparred against Ning Rongrong and nearly crushed her shield, Leng Xue's frost veil coiled out softly. Pressure slowed the strike enough for Rongrong to evade, and though few realized, those sharp enough noticed. Zhao Wuji's gaze lingered seconds longer. Tang San's eyes caught his faintly, recognition dawning that this frost did more than air cooling.
That evening, Tang San approached again, simply saying, "You gave her the chance to move." Leng Xue only smiled faintly. "Frost never asks praise. It shelters quietly." Tang San inclined head, and for that moment, they understood each other perfectly: endurance above brilliance, patience above pride. Shrek had monsters of flame, claw, and thunder. But even monsters needed cold shadow to give breath.