The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the Shrek Academy grounds bathed in the soft glow of lanterns hung along the dormitories and training fields. Most students had retired early, bodies aching from another day of relentless drills. The air carried the faint scent of sweat, earth, and cooling grass.
In a secluded clearing behind the faculty buildings—far enough from the dorms to avoid disturbance, yet close enough for safety—Jin Mori waited.
His staff leaned against a nearby tree, catching the lantern light in subtle golden flecks. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, jade eyes fixed on the star-scattered sky. The peace of the night reminded him of quieter moments in his original world, after battles when the adrenaline faded and only reflection remained.
A soft footfall announced her arrival.
Ning Rongrong stepped into the clearing, clutching a small lantern of her own. She had changed into simple training robes—still finer than the others wore, but practical. Her silver hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, a few strands framing her face. For once, there was no complaint on her lips, only a mixture of determination and nervous anticipation.
"You're early," Mori observed gently, turning to face her.
"I didn't want to be late," she replied, setting her lantern down. "Not for this."
He nodded, gesturing to the open space. "We'll start with the basics. Auxiliary spirit masters like you are the core of any strong team, but that doesn't mean you should be defenseless alone. Tonight, we work on awareness, positioning, and self-enhancement."
Rongrong summoned her Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda without hesitation. The crystalline tower floated above her palm, radiating prismatic light—now with three soul rings: yellow, purple, black.
"Seven Treasures turn out glass! First: Strength! Second: Speed! Third: Soul!"
Forty percent boosts enveloped her body. She felt the familiar surge—muscles lighter, reactions sharper, spirit power flowing more freely.
Mori circled her slowly, staff now in hand but held loosely.
"Good activation speed," he said. "But you're standing still. In real combat, the moment you finish the incantation is when you're most vulnerable."
He moved—suddenly, but not at full speed. The staff swept low toward her legs in a gentle arc.
Rongrong yelped, jumping back awkwardly. The boost helped, but her footwork was untrained.
"Again," Mori said, resetting. "This time, move as you cast."
They repeated the exercise dozens of times. Each time Mori's staff came from a different angle—high, low, diagonal, thrust. Never hard enough to injure, always controlled to force reaction.
Sweat beaded on Rongrong's forehead. Her breathing grew labored, but her eyes burned brighter with every attempt.
By the thirtieth repetition, she dodged cleanly, landing in a balanced stance.
Mori paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "Better. You're learning to read intent."
She straightened, chest heaving, but pride shone in her expression. "It's… different when someone's actually coming at you. Before, I always stayed in the back. Safe."
"Safety is an illusion if your team falls," Mori replied. "A true support doesn't hide—they dance on the edge, always ready to shift the battle."
He demonstrated then, moving through a series of fluid steps—Renewal Taekwondo adapted to this world's energies. His footwork was deceptively simple, yet every motion carried perfect economy. The staff twirled, becoming a blur, then stopped abruptly inches from a tree trunk without touching it.
Rongrong watched, mesmerized.
"That's… beautiful," she whispered, almost to herself.
Mori lowered the staff. "It's practical. Every step has purpose. Try mirroring the pattern."
She did—clumsily at first, pagoda still floating, boosts active. But with each attempt, her movements smoothed. The auxiliary spirit master who had once stood frozen began to flow.
An hour passed like that—correction, repetition, encouragement.
Finally, Mori called a break. They sat on a fallen log, sharing water from a leather flask he produced.
Rongrong's cheeks were flushed, hair clinging damply to her skin. Yet she looked more alive than Mori had ever seen her.
"I never thought training could feel like this," she admitted quietly. "Back home, elders lectured. Servants fetched whatever I needed. No one ever… pushed me like you do."
Mori gazed at the stars again. "Pushing isn't cruelty. It's belief."
She turned to him, eyes searching his profile. "Why do you believe in me? You barely know me."
He was silent for a long moment.
"Because I've seen what happens when potential is wasted," he said at last, voice softer. "People I cared about… they carried gifts greater than they realized. Some never got the chance to grow into them. I won't let that happen here if I can help it."
There was pain in his tone—old, deep, carefully buried.
Rongrong felt it like a physical thing. Without thinking, she reached out, her hand resting lightly on his forearm.
"I'm sorry," she said simply.
Mori looked down at her hand, then met her gaze. For the first time, the calm mask slipped—just a fraction. Vulnerability flickered in those jade depths.
"Thank you," he murmured.
The moment stretched, charged with unspoken understanding.
Then a distant howl echoed through the night—a spirit beast, deeper in the forest, restless.
Mori stood smoothly. "We should end for tonight. You need rest to consolidate what you've learned."
Rongrong rose as well, reluctance clear. "Tomorrow again?"
He nodded. "Every evening, until you no longer need me."
She smiled—a real one, without arrogance or pretense. "I think that might take a while."
As she walked back toward the girls' dormitory, lantern swinging gently, Mori watched until she disappeared inside.
Only then did he exhale, a quiet breath carrying centuries of loneliness.
The next morning brought an unexpected visitor.
A messenger from Heaven Dou Empire arrived at the academy gates, bearing sealed correspondence for Flender and Grandmaster. Rumors had spread quickly—a mysterious young Titled Douluo associated with Shrek. Noble families and smaller sects were curious. Some sent gifts. Others sent invitations.
Flender, of course, saw gold soul coins in every envelope.
Grandmaster, however, saw complications.
He summoned Mori to his small office after breakfast.
The room was cluttered with books, spirit beast specimens in jars, and handwritten theories covering every surface.
"Teacher Jin," Grandmaster began directly, "your presence has drawn attention. Prince Xue Qinghe of Heaven Dou Empire has expressed interest in meeting you. An invitation to the royal palace has been extended."
Mori leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "And you're concerned."
Grandmaster nodded. "Shrek is small. Independent. We survive by staying beneath the notice of major powers. Your strength… it changes the balance."
Mori understood immediately. Spirit Hall, the great sects, the empires—they all played a game of power. A wildcard like him threatened the board.
"I have no interest in politics," Mori said calmly. "I came here for the students. Nothing more."
Grandmaster studied him. "Yet your very existence is political now. If you refuse the prince, it could be seen as a slight. If you accept… Spirit Hall will take note."
Mori's expression remained serene. "Then let them."
A flicker of admiration crossed Grandmaster's face. Few spoke of Spirit Hall so dismissively.
"I will decline politely," Mori continued. "My place is here, teaching. If the prince wishes to observe a lesson, he is welcome—as a guest."
Grandmaster exhaled. "That may suffice. For now."
As Mori turned to leave, Grandmaster added quietly, "Whoever you are… I'm glad you chose Shrek."
Mori paused, then nodded once before departing.
That afternoon, during team sparring, the Seven Devils faced a new challenge.
Mori divided them into shifting pairs, forcing constant adaptation. Tang San's control clashed with Dai Mubai's assault. Xiao Wu and Zhu Zhuqing's agility complemented and competed. Oscar and Ma Hongjun supported from varying distances.
Rongrong, for the first time, moved dynamically—boosting one teammate, then relocating to support another, her footwork from the previous night already showing.
When Dai Mubai's White Tiger Intense Light Wave threatened to overwhelm Tang San's grass bindings, Rongrong's boosted speed allowed her to slide between them, pagoda flashing.
"Third: Defense!"
A forty-percent defense boost enveloped Tang San just in time. The wave struck, but he held.
The spar ended in a rare draw.
As the group caught their breath, Dai Mubai actually grinned at Rongrong. "Not bad, princess."
She lifted her chin, but her smile was genuine. "I'm learning."
Later, as the sun set, she returned to the clearing for her second private lesson.
Mori greeted her with the same calm warmth.
This time, when they sat to rest, the conversation drifted deeper.
She spoke of her father's expectations, the pressure of being the clan's future. He listened, offering no judgment.
In turn, he shared a fragment—a story of a grandfather who taught him strength through kindness, loss through perseverance.
Neither noticed how close they sat, shoulders almost touching.
Nor how the space between them felt smaller with every shared word.
In the shadows beyond the clearing, red eyes watched briefly—ancient, calculating—before retreating deeper into the forest.
The currents were shifting.
Something inevitable approached.
But for now, under lantern light and emerging stars, a teacher and his student trained.
And two hearts, one ancient and one young, began to beat a little closer to the same rhythm.