Bella's psychic shield could block mind-reading and, to a certain degree, hostile spells.
Inside her spirit lake, the spell appeared as an abstract web-like symbol—proof that she fully understood it and could use it with ease.
The deeper her understanding of her own mind, the stronger that shield would become.
Right now it was still in its beginner state—good enough to stop casual mind-peeking, but if Charles Xavier put on Cerebro, or if an angel or demon decided to crack open her skull spiritually, she wouldn't stand a chance.
The emotional-control ability she inherited from her predecessor had fused into this shield as well. With its support, she was almost immune to negativity—able to stay optimistic, grounded, and collected for long stretches of time.
That mattered.
A lot.
People say "a good swimmer dies in water," and among psychic users? Ninety-nine percent had mental issues. Keeping her center steady—knowing who she was, where her limits lay—was more important than any spell.
Bella tested her abilities back and forth and discovered that, besides the shield, she had awakened two more passive traits.
The first was a massive boost to her physical strength.
Her body—strength, speed, stamina, reflexes—felt sharper, faster, denser. She didn't know where the ceiling was yet, only that she was nowhere close to reaching it.
The shield came from her predecessor.
The physical boost came naturally from psionic reinforcement.
The last ability, though—this one belonged exclusively to the current Bella.
Death premonition.
Call it fear.
Call it respect.
Whichever it was, she could now glimpse fragments of impending danger—brief flashes of death approaching her. The visions weren't clear or complete, and deciphering them was another skill entirely.
After several rounds of testing, Bella's head spun so hard she nearly collapsed.
"Whoa—this smoke is awful! Cough—cough!!"
Only then did she realize the entire room was filled with thick gray haze. She scrambled to open the windows, fanning the air and apologizing to confused neighbors peeking over their fences. Once everything was cleaned up, the traces of the ritual finally faded.
There were materials left—enough for one more attempt.
She'd save them. After she dealt with her "Death" problem, she'd perform a proper ancestor-offering report.
Her injuries healed faster now. With her boosted physique, the cut on her palm would probably close up in three days.
By the time Charlie got home—having received a frantic call about a "possible house fire"—Bella had already figured out the basics of her new powers.
Plane crashes.
Smoke-filled rooms.
Charlie couldn't help feeling sorry for his daughter. He picked up his wallet, sighed, and took her out for dinner.
Bella didn't argue—she was starving. Strength enhancement came with a price: she needed fuel. She could technically trick her body with psionic force, make herself feel full, but that wasn't real. She wasn't at the "live on air and pure vibes" level.
If someone else was paying? Fine—she'd eat.
Golden-fried pork cutlets, delicate pastries, a large bowl of beef-and-potato stew, a basket of warm bread…and because he still worried she wasn't eating enough, Charlie signaled the owner to bring out a whole crispy fried fish.
Halfway through the meal, he finally spoke.
"How did you… suddenly get so energized?"
Nothing obvious had changed—same face, same clothes, same posture—but something about her aura felt different. Subtle. Hard to point out. Others might miss it, but a father who saw her every day? Impossible.
Bella delicately cut into her berry pie, trying not to look like she was inhaling food like a starved wolf.
She lifted her eyes just enough.
"Charlie… does it feel like I got prettier?"
Daughters asking if they're pretty at age five? Normal.
At almost eighteen? Slightly odd.
But this was America: individuality and confidence were gospel. No one blinked at the question.
Charlie nodded without hesitation.
"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Bella focused inward—into her spirit lake—and felt it.
A tiny increase.
Barely a ripple.
But it was there.
Yes! It worked!
She swallowed the pie, almost giddy.
She'd had a theory—and it was right.
Animals earn affection from the pack through affirmation. If others sincerely praised her, it boosted Bella's own confidence. And confidence, within her psionic system, fed power.
Courage?
Wisdom?
Forget competing in areas where the Marvel universe had geniuses and heroes everywhere you looked.
But beauty?
Standing next to Natasha Romanoff—already one of the top-tier faces of the era—Bella's confidence didn't waver. If she wasn't the absolute best, she was at least tied.
Why fight where you're weak when you can specialize where you're strong?
Beauty it was.
Let everyone confirm it for her.
Free psionic fuel.
Over the next few days, Bella asked nearly everyone she knew—from the café owner to Jacob the loyal puppy.
Jacob, of course, delivered with 120% sincerity.
"Do you think I'm the most beautiful woman in the world?"
"Yes! You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!"
"Okay. Bye."
"???!!"
She even called Natasha in Phoenix.
"Natasha, be honest—am I the most beautiful woman in the world?"
A stunned pause on the other side.
"…Yeah, yeah. Sure. You're the prettiest. Is that all?"
Bella felt nothing.
Fake.
Uninspired.
Unqualified.
She opened a small black notebook.
—On this date: Natasha brushed me off. I'll remember this.
By the time she finished "surveying" the entire town, her total psionic pool had grown by roughly one-third—half from training, half from genuine praise.
She continued pushing her physique as well. Fox's tiny town didn't have real training facilities, but self-tests told her everything she needed to know:
Her body had completely surpassed human limits.
Her muscles looked slim and ordinary, but the strength coiled inside them was terrifying.
She could burst into a hundred-meter sprint in a second.
She could bench press over a ton.
When she went hunting with Charlie, she could almost track a bullet with her eyes.
One thing was clear—
Bella Swan was no longer normal.