The hallway had changed again—each step Qiang Ming took further separated him from the outside world and deeper into the belly of Shrek Academy. These trial halls were like a labyrinth of assessments, a gauntlet designed to not only measure ability, but to exhaust even the most prideful.
At the end of this particular corridor, Qiang Ming was guided into a surprisingly normal-looking room—smooth wooden walls, no soul formations humming beneath the floor, no illusion arrays. Just… a long table.
And at the table?
Dumplings.
A massive plate of them. No, not a plate—a mountain, easily fifty strong, steam rising gently from their freshly cooked dough.
A large man with a jolly face and an apron stood behind the table, arms crossed.
"The sixth trial," he said with a smile. "Endurance of a different sort. You've got thirty minutes. Eat at least thirty-five of these. Do that and you get full points. Every five extra earns some bonus favor. But remember—this is about your body's tolerance, not your appetite. Push too far, and we've had some accidents in the past."
Qiang Ming raised an eyebrow and then—smiled.
He took a seat, hands already reaching for the first dumpling. "You might need more," he said calmly. "I'm still kinda hungry from all the murder."
The cook blinked.
Then watched with wide eyes as Qiang Ming absolutely demolished the first plate. No flair, no mess. Just practiced, brutal efficiency. Thirteen minutes in, all fifty dumplings had vanished, and Qiang Ming was leaning back.
"Another round."
"…Seriously?" the cook asked, already reaching for the backup tray.
Another fifty came out, stacked with careful precision.
Qiang Ming started slower this time—not from fullness, but tactical digestion. He chewed with more control, giving his body time to catch up. Sweat dotted his forehead near the end, but just as the thirty-minute mark hit, he popped the last dumpling into his mouth, swallowed, and patted his stomach.
"Done."
Chen Yi, standing to the side with arms folded, let out a faint breath. "Ten points."
"You're surprised?" Qiang Ming asked, wiping his mouth.
"I'm concerned," she replied honestly.
The seventh test was held outdoors—thankfully, the fresh air cut through some of the dumpling haze still lingering in Qiang Ming's belly. The training ground was vast and empty, its only features a sand-covered running loop and two metallic stations—one for squats, one for pull-ups.
"The rules are simple," Chen Yi explained. "Ten kilometers of running, 1,000 squats with 50kg weights, and 1,000 pull-ups. You've got an hour. Complete all three, and you'll get 10 points. Every ten more minutes and you lose a point"
Qiang Ming stared at the course, then looked to her. "You sure I shouldn't do this before the dumpling feast?"
"No one told you to eat one hundred dumplings," she pointed out.
He rolled his shoulders. "Fair enough."
And then, without a word, he started.
The 10k run was completed in under fifteen minutes. His pace was ridiculous—not rushed, but precise. His breathing never faltered, his footfalls stable even on the loose terrain. By the end of it, a faint sheen of sweat clung to his brow, but nothing more.
Next came the squats.
Qiang Ming stepped under the bar, a pair of 25kg slabs affixed to each side. He performed the first two hundred with machine-like repetition—every movement smooth, controlled. By the halfway point, even some of the onlookers who had wandered by began whispering.
Pull-ups followed. He used his own momentum to climb the first hundred rapidly, the next few hundred requiring more focus as his muscles grew tighter, lactic acid kicking in. But he never stopped. Never wavered.
And by minute thirty-four, Qiang Ming was finished.
"Ten points," Chen Yi said, this time with an almost impressed tilt to her tone.
He cracked his neck. "That helped the dumplings settle."
But it was the eighth trial where things became more… lively.
This time, the room resembled a traditional soul arena—spacious, circular, with reinforced walls and observers seated high above. Qiang Ming was guided to a waiting area while Chen Yi handed him a list of names and martial spirits.
"Pick your opponent. You've got ten minutes."
Qiang Ming didn't hesitate. He skimmed the names, his eyes landing on one that intrigued him. Xiang Luan, age 14, Martial Spirit: Glacial Golem. A rare summon-type Spirit,a YYP Soul Elder.
Ten minutes later, the two stood in the ring.
Xiang Luan was taller than Qiang Ming by a few centimeters, his build stockier. He had short white hair and a calm, professional demeanor. He offered a respectful nod before summoning his spirit.
The Glacial Golem appeared behind him, rising up like a tower of jagged ice. It stood nearly four meters tall, its surface gleaming with an unnatural chill. Two glowing blue eyes flickered in its skull-like face.
"Ready?" the examiner asked.
Qiang Ming grinned. "Always."
"Begin!"
Xiang Luan acted immediately, sending the golem forward with a stomp. Ice cracked beneath its feet as it lunged with shocking speed. Qiang Ming didn't summon the Blackstone Abyss Hammer immediately—he danced back, weaving around the golem's heavy strikes, watching its form.
He didn't want to hurt Xiang Luan. This was a test, not a battlefield.
The golem slammed down an icy fist, and Qiang Ming twisted beneath it, sliding across the polished arena floor, then launched himself forward with a rolling somersault that put him near Xiang Luan.
"Let's test your control," he muttered.
Blackstone Abyss Hammer shimmered into existence.
He delivered a strike—not to Xiang Luan, but to the golem's chest, watching as the impact rippled through the summoned creature. The icy shell cracked but didn't shatter.
Another blow.
And another.
Each strike more refined, exploiting weaknesses, observing how the golem absorbed and redirected damage.
Xiang Luan's forehead was coated in sweat as he struggled to maintain the summoning. His hands glowed with soul power, but Qiang Ming could tell—his stamina was running thin.
"Sorry, buddy."
With a spin, Qiang Ming let out a controlled SoulQuake Blow—diluted but targeted—and slammed the hammer into the core of the golem's chest.
The ice exploded into mist. The creature dissipated, its fragments spiraling into spirit light.
Before Xiang Luan could react, Qiang Ming surged forward. The Blackstone Abyss Hammer vanished—he wouldn't use it on a fellow student. Instead, a barrage of fists crashed against Xiang Luan's defenses.
The first hit struck his jaw. The second caught his solar plexus. The third—
Down he went.
Soft thud. Out cold.
The arena fell quiet.
Chen Yi, who had been watching from the side, raised a hand. "Ten points."
She looked at Qiang Ming, a slight smirk curling on her lips. "You're getting dangerously close to history. Keep it up."
Qiang Ming exhaled once, wiping a bit of sweat from his temple. "Tell me about it."
And with that, they turned toward the corridor leading to the ninth trial—where reputation would meet legacy.