"Twilight… Hermit's Order…" Konan tasted the words—and fell.
Darkness folded in, viscous as tar. A cathedral of bone rose from it—white pillars veined with skeletal mosaics; at its heart a vast bone cross binding a light too huge to name. She looked up.
A shriek of thought tore through her skull.
Voices—thousands—jammed into her mind until her self shredded into tatters, each scrap whispering, pleading, howling.
"—no… stop—"
A hand of light touched her crown.
The storm receded. Warmth pooled. Konan's eyes cleared. "Adam" watched her with infant-clear, faintly golden eyes.
"Wh-what was that?"
"My negligence," Sogetsu said gently. "Do not speak that Name again without me present."
He'd meant for her to see—enough. Fear and awe move hearts faster than sermons. He couldn't summon a real god; but a shard of Foul Speech would do.
"What… is that?" Konan asked.
"Call Him the Creator," Sogetsu said. "The source and end of all; the god above gods; the reason the Twilight Hermit's Order exists."
"But… isn't creation the Sage's work?" Konan frowned.
"Myth is truth retold until it becomes a story," Sogetsu said, smiling. "Restore the facts and you may be… disappointed."
She opened her mouth. He raised a hand. "Some things are neither to be asked nor said."
He stood, lifting the black book. "Our meeting ends here. Next time, show me your resolve."
"Wait—how do I reach you? What should I do to change fate? What do you need from me?"
"Not yet," he said, looking to the thinning rain. "And you don't need me. I've already given you the answer."
He stepped into the street. The sky peeled open; a shaft of sun made a god of his retreating back.
"When He wakes from death's sleep," Sogetsu's voice drifted, "His imagined realm will descend, and His declared future will be made real."
The last note faded. He was gone.
"…The answer," Konan whispered. Her fist tightened over her heart. "Amegakure needs reform. And so does Akatsuki."
She went straight to Nagato.
"I need your help."
She didn't explain; he didn't ask. "Tell me what to do."
"I'm going to purge the organization," Konan said, eyes hard as cracked ice. "Yahiko is dead, but his will isn't. I'll inherit it and build a world without oppression. Will you stand with me?"
For a heartbeat, Nagato saw a stranger—then the black flame in her pupils steadied him.
"I understand," he said, levering himself upright on trembling arms. "I'll help you—even if it means defying fate… or the world."
"Thank you," Konan breathed, clasping his thin fingers.
"How?" he asked, coughing.
"Unify Akatsuki. Seize Ame." Konan laid out the plan, step by step.
"And if some won't follow?" Nagato rasped. He knew too well how many had skulked off—and how many were circling for power.
"Simple," Konan said. "Those who obey, stay. Those who don't… are removed."
This was the shinobi world. The strong write the rules. The weak abide.
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