Sagar moved through the underworld like a rumor, never in the same place twice, always just out of reach. He had no need for disguises or false names; the world's memory simply refused to hold onto him. Where the High Table sent assassins, they found only confusion—empty rooms, vanished targets, and allies turned against each other by whispers no one could trace.
He began with small amusements: a ledger swapped here, a coded message altered there. A trusted consigliere woke to find his vaults emptied, the gold scattered in the streets. A Continental manager found her best assassin suddenly loyal to a rival. Sagar's laughter echoed in the chaos—sometimes a voice in the dark, sometimes a storm that left no trace but the scent of ozone and fear.
But Sagar was not content with simple mischief. He escalated, nudging syndicates into conflict with a word or a gesture. He arranged for the Table's most secret meeting places to be exposed to their enemies, for their most loyal harbingers to question their oaths. The world's most disciplined killers began to doubt, to hesitate, to wonder if the rules they lived by were nothing more than a fragile illusion.
The High Table's adjudicators scrambled to restore order, but every move they made only deepened the chaos. Their networks fractured, their alliances crumbled. The old codes—coins, oaths, blood—were suddenly meaningless in a world where no one could trust what they saw or heard.
Sagar watched it all unfold from the shadows of opulent hotels and candlelit cathedrals, sipping rare wine and smiling at the spectacle. He had no interest in ruling the underworld or claiming its riches; his pleasure was in the unraveling, in seeing how far the mighty could fall when the ground shifted beneath their feet.
As the weeks passed, the High Table's desperation grew. They sent their best—silent killers, cunning spies, even the legendary harbingers whose names were spoken only in whispers. But none could touch Sagar, and none could predict his next move.
Finally, the Elder convened the Table in secret. Their voices, once so sure, now trembled with uncertainty. "We cannot fight what we cannot see," one admitted. "He is not a man—he is a force. If we do not yield, we risk losing everything."
The Elder, his mask set aside, stared at the spinning coin Sagar had left behind. "Then we will yield. But only to parley. If chaos wants a seat at the Table, let us see what price it demands."
And so, for the first time in history, the High Table prepared to surrender—not to an army, but to a single, smiling storm.