The next morning unfolded like every other in their secluded town—gentle and unassuming. Golden sunlight spilled through the inn's windows, painting the wooden floors in warm streaks, while the distant chirping of birds mingled with the occasional shouts of laborers beginning their day. The air carried the scent of dew-kissed grass and the faint, ever-present aroma of bread from the bakery next door.
Behind the polished oak bar, Daren moved with the quiet precision of a man who had mastered his craft over lifetimes. His hands, calloused yet elegant, wiped the beer glasses clean, each motion deliberate, each flick of the cloth leaving the glassware gleaming under the lantern light. To the patrons, he was merely a skilled bartender, but the way he worked—effortless, as if time bent around him—hinted at something far beyond mortal capability.
In the kitchen, Aria was already weaving her magic. The sizzle of butter in pans, the rhythmic chop of herbs, the rich fragrance of spices—it was a symphony only she could conduct. Her cooking was nothing short of art. A simple omelet became a masterpiece, its edges golden and crisp, the center impossibly fluffy, garnished with herbs she'd plucked from the garden at dawn. Even the humble porridge she prepared had a depth of flavor that made travelers question if they'd ever truly eaten before.
It was no wonder their inn, The Whispering Hearth, was the most sought-after in the region. Every morning, a line formed outside—merchants, weary couriers, even nobles slumming it in plain clothes—all drawn by rumors of Aria's culinary sorcery. The compliments came in waves: "A meal fit for the gods!" or "How does she make turnips taste like ambrosia?" But with the praise came the inevitable, grating proposals.
Just last week, a puffed-up viscount had the gall to suggest she abandon her "quaint little inn" to become his tenth concubine. Aria's smile had been knife-sharp, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "How kind of you to offer," she'd said, while her eyes—dark as a starless night—promised something far less polite. The man had left in a hurry, and by dawn, his entire retinue had vanished from town. No one asked questions. No one dared.
Daren had watched it all from the bar, amused. He knew better than anyone that Aria's patience was a fragile veneer over a bottomless well of wrath. But the nobles' persistence baffled him. Why insist on marrying an innkeeper? Even the densest lord should've realized her talents belonged in a royal kitchen, not a gilded cage.
The answer, of course, was simple: Aria was 'stunning'.
Even with her true beauty veiled—her transcendent aura suppressed to a mere whisper—she outshone every noblewoman in the kingdom. Her raven hair caught the light like silk, her movements fluid as a shadow, a thin waist, perky butt with modest chest that could entice even a monk and her smile could even melt stone, her entire being screamed 'perfection'. And Daren? He was no different. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a lean and tone build, condensed muscles, white hair like aether with golden eyes that held the weight of centuries, he drew stares without trying. Together, they were like diamonds scattered among pebbles—impossible to ignore.
Because they 'weren't' ordinary.
Once, they'd been adventurers who'd clawed their way to the pinnacle of existence. Daren, the Stormblade, whose sword had felled calamities. Aria, the Death Maiden, whose destructive spells had ended empires. They'd transcended the limits of mortals, ascended through the ranks—Copper, Bronze, Silver, Gold, Diamond, Platinum (the 'First Stage' of fleeting lives known as 'mortals')—then beyond, into the 'Mid Stage' : Black, Master, Grandmaster also called 'immortals', where time became a triviality. And finally, they'd reached the 'Final Stage'—Saint, then Sage also known as 'transcendents', the apex of all living things.
A Sage could kill hundreds of saint's and there being only something around 7000 saint's alive in the world, they didn't dare provoke a Sage since defeating them may take more than a thousand of saint's let alone kill one and saint's never worked together, bound by the arrogance of their strength. Even the biggest of organizations only had no more than 20 saint's in their ranks.
There were only six Sages in the world. Sages are always seen as God's by the world, they were the symbol of strength and power. Two of them were here, pouring ale and flipping pancakes.( Obviously Daren and Aria)
The ranking system was etched into every child's memory. Mortals lived staring from a century upto a thousand years with each rank up. Immortals? A thousand years, or fifty thousand—if war or monsters didn't claim them first in their pursuit for greater strength and adventure. But "Transcendents"? No one knew how long they lived. Some Sages had walked the earth for millennia, their vitality unyielding. Legends claimed they were eternal. There have been Sages before the present six but have died fighting each other or disappeared somewhere unknown hundreds of thousands of years ago. Some say 11 star beast got them and some say's that they reached the mythical Celestial rank and left the world to travel the cosmos.
Beasts followed their own hierarchy: one-star pests, five-star terrors, and the dreaded 'Calamity Beasts' (nine-star and ten-star), which only Saints and Sages could slay. An eleven-star beast was a myth—a nightmare that would reduce the world to ashes.
Daren's thoughts unraveled like a spool of thread, memories of battles and buried kingdoms surfacing—
The chime of the entrance bell snapped him back. He'd sensed the man approaching from a mile off—his Sage's awareness missed nothing, not the scuff of boots on gravel, not the hitch in the man's breath as he paused outside the door—but he played the part of the distracted bartender, fumbling with a glass for show.
The door swung open, hinges groaning. A middle-aged man stepped inside, his stout frame wrapped in a travel-worn cloak. A Gold-rank mortal, by the sluggish flicker of his aura. His boots left muddy prints on the clean floor as he eyed the common room—empty save for a pair of merchants nursing their breakfasts—then the bar, where Daren leaned, polishing the same glass for the third time.
"Welcome to 'The Whispering Hearth'," Daren said, sliding a coaster across the counter. "Ale, or something stronger?"
The man hesitated, glancing toward the kitchen, where the scent of caramelized onions and rosemary promised salvation. "I've heard… the food here is worth the journey."
Daren smirked. 'Oh, you have no idea.'
"Aria!" he called over his shoulder. "We've got a believer."
Somewhere in the kitchen, a knife thudded into a cutting board. Aria's laughter, dark and sweet as molasses, spilled into the room.
The man shivered, though the hearth burned bright
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