Magic Pot in the Cave of Priceless - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

It began with silence.
The stars were high, and the village slept peacefully beneath a silver moon. Only the old windmill creaked softly in the breeze. Timo lay in his bed, the day’s memories still fresh in his mind—the way little Emra had smiled, how the villagers had begun to speak gently, even to those they once ignored.
But deep in the shadows, unseen by the moon, someone was watching.
Korrin, a traveler who had wandered into the village just before sunset, had kept to the back of the crowd. He listened. He observed. But he did not kneel before the pot. His eyes were sharp with calculation, and his heart held no reverence—only hunger.
He waited until the last candle died.
And then he moved.
With practiced hands, he crept through the square and approached the pedestal. The Magic Pot rested there, unmoved, serene.
Korrin grinned.
“A pot that shows riches of the heart? Surely, it can show gold if asked the right way…”
He snatched it quickly, wrapping it in thick cloth, and vanished into the trees.
The wind stirred.
From somewhere deep in the forest, a fox’s golden eyes flickered open.
And the Guardian… awakened.
At dawn, Timo woke with a strange heaviness in his chest. He rushed to the square—and found the pedestal empty.
The pot was gone.
Panic rippled through the village. Accusations flew. Fingers pointed. But Timo said nothing. He simply picked up the piece of ribbon tied around the pedestal—the same one he’d worn on his wrist—and clenched it in his fist.
Then he turned to Grandmother Leya.
“I have to go after it.”
She nodded solemnly. “The cave gave you a gift, Timo. Now it gives you a choice. This is your test now.”
He packed quickly and slipped into the forest.
Meanwhile, Korrin had made camp in a hidden glade. He placed the pot before him and lit a fire, chuckling to himself.
“Now, little treasure,” he muttered, “show me something useful. Gold. Jewels. Power.”
He looked into the pot.
Nothing.
Just darkness.
Frustrated, he shouted, “Show me something real!”
The pot trembled. A strange wind blew through the glade. And suddenly, the air thickened—like breath held too long.
The shadows twisted.
From the trees, a shape emerged.
Silver-furred. Horned. Eyes like burning moons.
The Guardian.
Korrin stumbled back. “What—what are you?!”
The Guardian’s voice echoed through the trees.
“You took what was not yours. You sought power, not purpose. And now, the pot will show you what you truly are.”
Korrin looked again—and this time, he saw his own reflection, warped and hollow. He saw greed devouring him. He saw a life filled with empty victories and forgotten faces. And in the center of it all, he saw himself—utterly alone.
He screamed.
But there was no one to hear it.
Only the pot.
Only the truth.
By the time Timo reached the glade, the fire had gone cold. Korrin was gone, vanished into the forest. Only the pot remained—silent, still, unharmed.
Timo approached it slowly.
The pot glowed faintly as he touched it, as if grateful.
He smiled softly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have protected you better.”
And once more, he began the journey home—carrying not just the pot, but the lesson that even treasure must be guarded from those who see only its shadow, not its soul.