Old Hunter Bartow's words landed like a block of ice in Seraphia's chest, making her shiver. The darkness around them seemed to grow heavier with that name. The wind through the trees moaned, sounding like countless pained cries.
"The Rage That Splits Stone…" Seraphia whispered the name. It felt raw and powerful, stirring a deep fear.
"*Hush!*" Bartow snapped, glaring at her with a look of superstitious dread, as if speaking the name itself could bring doom. He scanned the trees, listening intently. Only the normal sounds of the night—the wind and the distant howl of a regular wolf—met his ears. He relaxed slightly, but his frown remained.
He said no more, just jerked his head for her to follow and turned, melting into the deeper shadows of the woods like a wolf that knew every root and stone. Seraphia followed close behind, pushing through her exhaustion and fear.
He led her through the black woods with unerring steps, avoiding steep drops and tangled vines. Finally, they reached a hidden cave. Its entrance was covered by thick vines. From inside came the cheerful crackle of a dry-wood fire and a warm, welcoming glow.
The cave was small but lived-in. Dried meat and bunches of herbs hung from the walls. Thick furs were piled in a corner. A small fire in the center held a pot of something simple and hearty, bubbling away.
Bartow handed her a rough wooden cup of hot water. The warmth seeped into her frozen hands, letting a little of the tension out.
"Thank you, sir," Seraphia said sincerely, sipping the water.
Bartow grunted, tossing another branch on the fire. The flames danced across the deep lines of his face. "Don't thank me. Just didn't want to see a living soul—'specially one who looks… clean like you—fed to Rotclaw's stinking pups. Or worse." He paused, his sharp eyes lifting to hers. "Who *are* you? Why seek death?"
Seraphia was silent for a moment. This man had saved her. He knew this land, and *him*, deeply. She needed his help.
"My name is Seraphia," she said softly, deciding on a piece of the truth. "I was a Saint of the Holy Light Church. I left. Not to betray it, but to follow a revelation."
"Revelation?" Bartow snorted, a hill-man's instinctive distrust of distant churches and their words. "A revelation told you to free that *thing*?"
"Not free. To seek his strength," Seraphia corrected, her gaze firming. "Chaos is eating our world. The Church's ways… are not enough. An old prophecy says only the lost 'Primordial Scripture' can truly heal it. And the path to the Scripture requires… the guardian-ship of the Rage That Splits Stone."
At the mention of the 'Primordial Scripture,' a faint, ancient light flickered in Bartow's eyes, like he'd touched a tale older than the Church, passed down through generations of mountain folk. But he shook his head, dismissing it.
"Guardian? Ha!" His laugh was more bitter, almost sad. "Girl, you have no idea what that is! That's no guardian. It's a walking disaster! A landslide given form! It's…"
His voice dropped, filled with deep awe and fear, as if he was peeling back a bloody, old scar.
"My grandfather's grandfather saw it… when he was just a boy. The sky was brighter then, stars clearer. Then one day, *it* came."
"No one knew from where. Some said it fell from a crack in the stars. Others said it was the mountain's rage given form. It… *he*," Bartow seemed to struggle for the right word, "where he walked, rock parted like water. He threw mountain peaks like toys. He single-handedly tore apart the 'Stonejaw' ogre tribe that tried to rule these mountains—smashed them and their fort deep into the earth!"
"When his mood was foul, his roar made the whole range shake, started avalanches and rockfalls. He chased a great scorpion-lion that challenged him—leapt straight from 'Eagle's Beak Crag' to 'Lone Mountain'! Left a crater that's still there today… a distance a ballista couldn't shoot!"
The old man took a shaky drink of water. "He didn't care who was in his way. Orc warbands, human knights, even… even the 'light-folk' said to come from above the clouds," he might have meant celestials, "if they annoyed him, he smashed them to bits. He wasn't evil, girl. He didn't care about good or bad. He only cared if he was amused. He was pure, raw… *power*."
"How… how was he imprisoned?" Seraphia's voice was dry. His stories painted a picture of a狂暴的, primal force of nature, making the Church's tales of 'demons' seem pale.
Bartow's pupils shrank, showing a deeper fear. "That… that's another story. Just know one day, a person in a white robe like yours," he pointed at her clothes, "came into the mountains. They fought. For a long, long time… the sky itself changed color. In the end, the whole of Giant's Peak glowed and sang like thunder. When it was over, the white-robe was gone. And *he*… was gone. People say the Saint's power sealed him forever in the heart of the mountain."
The old man stared hard at Seraphia. "That's not something you 'seek strength' from, girl. That's a disaster that could plunge the world back into chaos if it got loose! The Church was right to cage it! Why would you do this foolish thing?"
Seraphia listened quietly to all the terrible tales. Her face was still pale, but deep in her violet eyes, the flame wasn't snuffed out. It burned brighter.
She saw another side.
*He tore apart the mountain's bullies.*
*He destroyed invading armies.*
*He ignored the authority of the so-called 'light-folk.'*
The things Bartow saw as terror and chaos, she saw, strangely, standing against the very things she fought—rigid rules, corrupt authority, the creeping Chaos eating the world.
He was an unclaimed hammer, powerful enough to reshape the world. Her task was to find the right target for that hammer… and to grip its handle.
"It's *because* the world might fall into chaos," Seraphia said, her gaze lifting as if seeing through the cave roof to the distant, red-cracked sky, "that we need a force powerful enough to break the deadlock. Even if it is a force of destruction."
She stood and bowed slightly to the old man. "Thank you for telling me this, Master Bartow. It only makes me more certain. Please, tell me the way to the prison."
Bartow's mouth hung open, looking at her as if she were utterly mad. His grizzled beard trembled. "You… you didn't hear a word! It's death! Worse than what Rotclaw would've given you!"
"My mission is greater than my life," Seraphia said, her tone terrifyingly calm.
The old man stared for a long time. Finally, his shoulders slumped, as if he'd aged ten years. He muttered curses under his breath, struggled with himself, then finally thrust a rough finger toward a direction.
"Follow the stream up to its source. You'll see a split in the mountain, like it was cut by a giant's axe. They call it 'God's Blade.' Go through it… that's the foot of Giant's Peak. The heart of the seal… it's under the steepest cliff-face there. Too smooth to be natural."
He paused, his voice rough. "Don't expect me to take you. My old bones turn back there. That ground… nothing living should go near it."
Seraphia thanked him again, gravely. "I will remember your kindness."
She said no more, just straightened her robes, packed her meager supplies, and walked without hesitation toward the direction he'd pointed.
Old Hunter Bartow watched her slender, determined back vanish into the dark beyond the cave mouth. He was silent for a long time, only the fire crackling. Finally, he let out a deep sigh and muttered to himself, his voice full of bewildered emotion:
"By the Light… the way she walked in there… it was like she was going to her own sacrifice…"