Descendants of the Lost Heroes: Journey in Another World

Professor Witherthorn continues the class with methodical precision, delving into their upcoming curriculum. As he conjures the first unit about mana pathways in the body, his voice carries steady authority, each word resonating with years of arcane expertise that seems to ripple through the very air.

"When manipulating mana throughout your body, understand that everyone possesses a different threshold for control," he lectures, pacing before the class with measured steps that echo against the chamber's ancient stones. "Some individuals can handle vast amounts, while others work with more modest reserves. However, greater mana capacity doesn't automatically translate to stronger spells—it simply means you have more raw power at your disposal."

To illustrate his point, Professor Witherthorn weaves subtle patterns in the air, his fingers trailing ghostly traces of magical energy that dance like starlight. "Consider two practitioners—one with low mana reserves and one with high. If both attempt a simple mana bullet spell, the one with less mana can execute it just as effectively. When creating a mana bomb, the high-capacity user would naturally produce a larger explosion. Yet this doesn't mean the low-capacity user can't craft an equally lethal weapon by incorporating mana shrapnel and their unique bloodline qualities."

He pauses, letting his words settle like dust motes in the classroom's ethereal light. "This is the essence of Magic Theory—learning to maximize your natural gifts. During our earlier tests, we evaluated your bloodline tiers, physical capabilities, and mana control. Using these metrics, I'll tailor specific assignments for each of you. Those with lower mana control will begin with basics like mana bullets or body reinforcement, while those displaying higher control will face more complex challenges involving intricate mana arrangements and advanced spells."

Glancing at the classroom clock, Professor Witherthorn concludes his lecture with a knowing smile. "But those challenges await another day. Class is nearly over." His gaze sweeps across the room, sharp eyes meeting each student's with an intensity that suggests he sees far more than mere physical presence. "Have a great day, and remember—your dedication to classes and studies shapes not just your future, but the future of our realm."

As the days blend together, Alex, Randy, and Max settle into their new routine. Classes flow one into another, evening meals become cherished moments of respite, and nights bring well-earned rest. Yet among their various subjects, one class proves particularly challenging for Alex, testing both his resolve and his growing abilities.

In Combat Training, Alex stands in his skin-tight dark purple suit, its material designed to enhance mobility while offering minimal protection. His face bears the evidence of intense practice—bruises blooming like storm clouds across his features. Before him stands Stella, the seventh-ranked student, her silver uniform accentuating an athletic frame that belies her devastating combat prowess.

Alex maintains his guard, fists raised defensively, knowing any lapse in concentration would give Stella another opening to paint his face with fresh bruises. Taking the initiative, he advances with calculated determination, applying his recent training. His wide swing meets Stella's practiced guard, her elbow redirecting his arm before driving a precise jab into his gut that sends shockwaves through his body.

"Guhh," Alex gasps, saliva spraying from his mouth as the enhanced strike connects. Stumbling backward, he clutches his stomach while barely managing to block Stella's overhead chop. His free arm deflects her strike, following through with a quick kick at her leg. Stella absorbs the impact unflinchingly, responding with a devastating punch that sends him crashing to the ground with a resonating boom.

Blood trickles from his nose as the combat instructor—who also teaches Max's boxing class—calls an end to their sparring session. As practice concludes, Stella's professional demeanor softens, her hand extending in a gesture of sportsmanship that carries genuine respect.

"Couldn't have pulled your punches back, could you?" Alex asks, accepting her help while holding his bleeding nose.

Stella shakes her head, her expression matter-of-fact though her eyes dance with amusement. "Then this wouldn't be real combat training, now would it?" Despite her firm stance, concern flickers across her features as she retrieves a cleaning cloth. "Here, take this. You look like a mess," she adds with a cheeky smile that somehow makes the beating worth it.

"Thanks," Alex replies, accepting the cloth while stealing furtive glances at his sparring partner.

His mind drifts back two weeks, to a Friday during their first week of classes when everything seemed deceptively normal. The week had progressed smoothly despite their expanding social circle—Han becoming a constant presence, Vincent and Max developing their peculiar nighttime sparring ritual, and Elizabeth shadowing Randy with almost parasitic devotion.

That particular Friday in combat training had started typically enough, until their instructor's seating assignment placed Alex beside Stella. Initially, her attention seemed genuine—after all, she had helped them during that crucial confrontation. Yet something about her persistent questions and probing curiosity felt calculated, though Alex tried to dismiss his suspicions as paranoia.

One moment stands out in his memory, revealing a different side of Stella that left him more confused than enlightened. "Geez, Alex, you're so uptight. Remind me of my mother," she had said, her tone shifting subtly before adding with an unsettling gesture across her throat, "before she got caught."

The comment's timing perplexed him—coming right after their combat instructor's lecture about human terrorist organizations corrupted by demons. Her words felt disconnected, artificial, like dialogue read from a script rather than natural conversation. Was it a veiled reference to his Daywalker status? Or perhaps a hint at deeper connections between her mother, terrorism, and the noble families?

Lying in bed, Alex turns these questions over in his mind repeatedly. Most of Stella's interactions feel genuine yet somehow rehearsed, as if performed for an unseen audience. But that one sentence stands apart—more artificial than all the rest, like a news report describing her life from an outsider's perspective.

This mystery adds another layer to Alex's mental framework—a growing determination to understand Stella's story, her connection to his situation, and the truth behind her carefully constructed facade. Despite his inexperience with girls his age, particularly someone as captivating as Stella, Alex recognizes the need to step outside his comfort zone and take initiative.

He adopts a playful, teasing approach in their interactions, finding that humor offers the safest path to meaningful conversation. Behind his casual banter lies a determined curiosity, each exchange bringing him closer to unraveling the enigma that is Stella, even as her mysteries seem to deepen with every revelation.

On one such occasion, Alex had asked Stella for a sparring session on the weekend when they had no class. Having sent a message through his OSAI, he sought this opportunity not only to understand Stella better but also because he desperately needed more practice - his performance in class hadn't been stellar lately.

That's where Alex found himself, heading to Class 1C's training facility. The homeroom remained open for students even on weekends, and today the dojo would host just the two of them. Standing before him, Stella donned her combat uniform, her moderately long blonde hair framing her slender features.

As Stella walked into the dojo, she pushed her hair into a ponytail. "What is it you need from me, Alex?"

"Nothing much," Alex replied, standing up from his seat and meeting her in the center. "I haven't been doing too well in class, and I'd rather avoid another scolding from Mr. Ferrothorn. Since you're my training partner, I figured there was nobody better to help me practice."

Stella placed her hands on her hips, studying him with an appraising look. "Sure. If you want to learn how to take a beatdown, I can show you that," she smirked.

Alex returned her smirk, falling into the fighting stance he'd learned in class. He launched forward, throwing a fist which Stella blocked, leading into a flurry of exchanges between them. Like dancers in deadly choreography, they fought, Alex taking mental notes of her movements.

'She's putting weight on her back foot - she's going to lunge,' he anticipated, raising his guard. He blocked her punch and countered with a kick to her side, making solid contact and pushing her back slightly. However, Stella used the momentum of his kick to spin around and sweep his legs from under him. As he hit the ground hard, she dropped down, stopping her elbow mere inches from his face.

"That's another one - me eight, you zero," she taunted, helping him up. "Poor Alex, you haven't won a single match."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard enough. Let's go again," Alex insisted, brushing off his losses.

"You're such a training addict," she laughed. "But alright, I can give you another beatdown if you want."

They continued sparring as time slipped away, both growing sweaty and tired from exertion. Yet they pressed on, knowing real fights rarely happened in perfect conditions. Through labored breath, Alex defended against Stella's relentless attacks, his body collecting bruises and minor cuts.

Then he saw it - the first opening Stella had ever shown. He seized the opportunity, landing a jab to her side. As she recoiled, he followed with a quick one-two combo that connected solidly. Dazed, Stella stumbled backward, and Alex capitalized with a midsection kick that knocked her down. He rushed in for the finishing blow, but she rolled aside, skillfully grappling him to the ground and pinning him beneath her.

"Uncle! Uncle! I give!" Alex called out.

Stella immediately released him, flopping onto her back beside him. "Must say, that's the first time you've even come close to beating me," she panted.

"Oh, it's so hard for you to almost lose once?" Alex rubbed his arm. "Imagine losing eight in a row."

"Nine, actually," Stella corrected, turning to meet his eyes.

Alex just shook his head, ignoring her comment as they lay there, exhausted but satisfied with their training session.

No words passed between them, only the sound of their heavy breathing filling the dojo's silence. The quiet stretched comfortably until Stella broke it.

"Hey, Alex." Her voice carried a different quality than usual - gone was her typical cheekiness and self-assurance, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. "Thanks for inviting me to spar with you. I know to you it might seem like I'm really easy to talk to, but..." she paused, gathering her thoughts. "Everyone else is too scared to approach me or hang out with me since my stepmother doesn't approve of me. So, I really do appreciate this." Her words carried the weight of sincere emotion, a rare glimpse beneath her usual confident exterior.

"Yeah, of course," Alex replied, his transformed eyes fixed on the ceiling. "You're fun to hang out with, and I need the help, so I should be thanking you for giving me your time." He shifted slightly, choosing his next words carefully. "To be honest, I don't really understand all the issues between the nobles and your family. I'm just here trying to live my life, you know?"

Hearing Alex's casual dismissal of noble politics, Stella smiled - a genuine expression of relief rather than her usual smirk. For once, she'd found someone who saw past the complicated web of noble allegiances and family drama, someone who simply accepted her as she was.

"You know..." she began softly, but let the thought trail off into comfortable silence, content in this moment of genuine connection.