The world returned to Bell in a haze of throbbing pain behind his eyes and a profound, unsettling emptiness in his chest. He lay on his small cot, the familiar scent of dried herbs and wood smoke filling his nostrils. His limbs felt heavy, as if filled with lead, and a dull ache resonated through his entire body. He remembered the exhilarating rush of the magic, the concussive thump of his "Ekriksi ichou," and then… nothing.

Alfia sat beside him, a damp cloth pressed to his forehead. Her expression was, as always, serene, betraying no overt emotion. Her touch was cool, efficient. Bell blinked, his crimson eyes focusing on her.

"Stepmother?" he mumbled, his voice raspy.

"You overexerted yourself," Alfia stated, her voice calm, yet firm, devoid of any softness. It was a statement of fact, not a question or an accusation. "I warned you. Mana exhaustion is not a trivial matter. It leaves the body vulnerable, the mind clouded. A foolish mistake."

Bell winced, not from the physical discomfort, but from the quiet reprimand in her tone. He knew she was right. He had been too excited, too eager to push the limits. He had disregarded her instruction, and this was the consequence. There was no anger in her eyes, no disappointment, only the unwavering expectation that he would learn from his error.

"I… I'm sorry, Stepmother," he whispered, his gaze dropping.

"Apologies are meaningless without understanding," she replied, her voice even. She removed the cloth, her eyes piercing his. "You felt the power. You felt its allure. But you did not respect its limits. Magic is a tool, Bell. A potent one. But a tool can break if wielded without control. It can break the wielder."

Bell nodded, the lesson sinking deep into his young mind. The thrill of the magic was still there, but now it was tempered by the stark reality of its cost. He understood.

For the next few days, Bell’s magical training was suspended. Alfia instead focused on his recovery, ensuring he ate and rested, though her methods remained as disciplined as ever. Once his strength returned, she led him back to the clearing behind the cottage, a small, blunt wooden dagger in her hand.

"Magic is not the only path to strength," Alfia began, her voice low. "Nor is it always the most reliable. A true warrior must be capable with their body, with their hands. Today, we begin with the blade."

She handed him a smaller, blunter wooden dagger, perfectly sized for his six-year-old grip. It felt light, yet solid, in his hand.

"This is an extension of yourself," she instructed, demonstrating a basic grip. "It is not merely for striking. It is for defense. For evasion. For precision."

Alfia moved with a fluid grace that belied her lingering illness. Her movements were economical, each step purposeful, each turn seamless. She demonstrated basic footwork, emphasizing balance and agility. She moved like a shadow, her body a blur of controlled motion, her feet barely disturbing the fallen leaves. Bell watched, mesmerized. He had seen her move before, but never with such focused intent, never as a teacher.

"Observe," she commanded, her voice sharp. "My stance. My weight distribution. My eyes. Where do they focus?"

Bell mimicked her, his small body awkward at first, but quickly adapting. He stumbled, he swayed, but he never gave up. His innate "rapid learning" ability was evident as he absorbed her techniques, his movements growing smoother with each repetition. He learned to shift his weight, to pivot, to step in and out of an imaginary opponent's range. Alfia’s corrections were precise, a light tap on his shoulder to adjust his posture, a firm hand on his hip to correct his stance. There was no wasted motion, no unnecessary words.  

Then came the dagger work. Alfia demonstrated simple thrusts and parries, emphasizing the importance of the blade's angle, the precise point of impact. She moved with a terrifying efficiency, her wooden dagger a blur, striking imaginary targets with silent, deadly accuracy. Her movements were a testament to her past as a Level 7 executive, a master of close-quarters combat, even with her body weakened by illness. Bell could feel the faint currents of air disturbed by her speed, the subtle vibrations in the ground as she shifted her weight.

"Your opponent will not stand still, Bell," she stated, her voice flat. "They will move. They will attack. You must anticipate. You must react."

She began to move around him, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, feinting, circling, forcing him to react. Bell, with his developing "sensing gaze" , began to feel her presence, to anticipate her movements before she made them. He learned to instinctively shift, to raise his dagger, to block an imaginary strike. He was learning to read her, to understand the subtle cues of an opponent.  

One afternoon, during a particularly intense drill, Alfia pushed herself harder than usual. Her movements became a whirlwind of precision, her wooden dagger a blur as she demonstrated a complex series of evasions and counter-attacks. For a fleeting moment, as she executed a rapid pivot, Bell felt a strange pressure in the air around her, a faint, almost imperceptible hum that vibrated through the ground beneath his feet. It was a sensation he recognized, a deeper, more profound version of the mana he had learned to manipulate. It was immense, ancient, and for a split second, he felt a shiver of awe.

Alfia completed the movement, her body coming to a sudden, controlled halt. Her expression remained serene, but Bell noticed a faint, almost invisible tremor in her hand as she lowered the dagger. She quickly clenched her fist, and the sensation vanished. She said nothing, but the fleeting glimpse of that immense power, that silent hum, lingered in Bell’s mind. He didn't understand it, not fully, but he knew it was connected to Stepmother, to her true strength. It was a power he admired, a power he wanted to understand.

"Again," Alfia commanded, her voice unwavering. "Faster. More precise. Do not waste a single movement."

Bell nodded, his eyes bright with determination. He picked up his wooden dagger, his small hand gripping it firmly. He pushed himself, driven by the desire to master these new skills, to become strong enough to protect his Stepmother, to live up to the silent, unwavering expectation in her eyes. The path to heroism was long, arduous, and filled with pain, but under Alfia’s strict, unyielding guidance, Bell Cranel was being forged into something truly formidable. He was learning to fight, not just with magic, but with every fiber of his being, a silent promise to the Silent Witch that he would not fail.