Sagar walked through the world as if it were a freshly shuffled deck of cards—every moment a chance, every encounter a mystery. The ley lines still trembled beneath his feet, their magic raw and unsettled from his awakening. He relished the sensation, stretching his senses, tasting the confusion and primal fear that now haunted witches, vampires, wolves, and hunters alike.
No one remembered him. No one knew to look for him. That was exactly how he liked it.
He wandered into a bustling medieval town, the kind that clung to the edge of the wild, where superstition was as common as bread. The people here were uneasy—animals had fled, crops had withered overnight, and children woke from nightmares of storms and laughter. Sagar smiled at the chaos, invisible to all but the most sensitive. He left a trail of minor disturbances in his wake: a merchant's scales tipping wildly, a priest's holy water boiling in its font, a flock of crows gathering on rooftops to caw warnings no one could understand.
He paused at a crossroads, where a coven of witches had gathered in secret. Their leader, a sharp-eyed woman with silver in her hair, was drawing protective runes in the dirt. Sagar watched, amused, as her spell fizzled and sparked, the magic refusing to obey. She shivered, glancing over her shoulder, sensing the presence of something she could not name.
"Nature's out of sorts tonight," Sagar whispered, his voice carried on the wind. The witch stiffened, but when she turned, there was nothing there—only the shadow of a man, gone as quickly as it had appeared.
He moved on, slipping through the world like a rumor. In the forest, he found a pack of werewolves, their hackles raised, their eyes wild with instinctive fear. Sagar crouched in the darkness, watching as they argued about omens and territory. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a gust of wind through their camp, scattering their fire and sending them into a frenzy. He laughed—a sound that echoed through the trees, making the wolves cower and the birds take flight.
In a distant castle, a vampire lord poured over ancient tomes, desperate for answers. Sagar's presence brushed against the vampire's mind, planting a dream of storms and forgotten gods. The vampire woke screaming, clutching at his chest, certain that something old and terrible had returned.
Sagar delighted in the confusion. He had no grand plan, no allegiance, no cause but his own amusement. He moved from place to place, stirring the pot, nudging fate, and savoring the taste of a world on the brink of remembering what it had lost.
He was chaos incarnate—a wild card in a game no one else knew they were playing. And as the night deepened, Sagar looked to the horizon, eager to see what would break next.
The age of legends had returned, and the world was his playground once more.