Before the great feasts of warriors, there was a time when men still feared the forests, and the rivers carried secrets only the reckless dared to hear. In those days, there was a man named Khonang. He had nothing—no land, no cattle, not even a hut of his own. Yet, He lived his life honestly, working for food, sometimes begging, surviving. But one evening, something changed; fate twisted its fingers through his path.
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Khonang was by the river, his hands skimming the water for small fish, when something caught his eye—a gleam beneath the murky current. He reached down, and his fingers closed around a stone, smooth as a polished pearl, black as the night sky. He held it up, and for a moment, the world became quiet, as if holding its breath.
It was said— in hushed voices by old men with teeth worn down from years of chewing betel—that such stones came from the heads of serpents, left behind when they shed their power along with their old skin. But others believed differently. The stone, they said, was not born of snakes but of men’s own greed, crafted by spirits who wished to test the hearts of those who found it.
At first, the change was barely noticeable. A handful of grain missing here, a fishing net gone there. But soon, entire baskets of rice vanished. Tools disappeared from workbenches. Meat hung out to dry turned to empty ropes and sticks swaying in the wind. And yet, though the village looked over their shoulders, no one could say who was stealing. No one ever saw a hand move in the dark or even expected it.
Except Khonang knew. Because it was his hand. He had not meant to take the first time, nor the second. But the stone enchanted him, it caused an itch beneath his skin, a hunger that was not his own. And with every stolen thing, the urge grew stronger. It was not just stealing anymore—it was owning. The thrill of taking what was not his burned hotter than any shame, and the stone pulsed warm in his grasp, as if pleased.
But the stone’s gift was twisted. He was never caught, but he was always known. People could never see him steal, yet they knew. They felt it in their bones, smelled it in the air. And so, when the villagers finally cornered him, their voices thick with rage, he did not beg. He did not plead. He only clutched the stone tighter, because he could not bear to let it go.
The elders knew then that this was not an ordinary thief’s curse. There was only one way to end it. They called the village together, gathered the sharpest minds, the oldest tongues.
A great fire was built, and Khonang was forced to place the stone within the flames. The night cracked open with a shriek, high and terrible, as if the stone itself fought against its own end. Then—a snap. A break. And silence.
Khonang collapsed, his body suddenly light, his mind clear for the first time in what felt like years. He wept, not for what he had lost, but for what he had become.
But the elders did not celebrate. They only watched the broken pieces of the stone cool in the embers. Because they knew. The stone was never truly destroyed. Somewhere, beneath another river’s flow, beneath another man’s unsuspecting hand, it would be found again. And the cycle would begin anew.
So the story was told, passed from lips to ears, carried on the wind through mountains and fields. A warning. A lesson. And yet, sometimes, in the quiet of a distant village, the whispers start again.
A strange, black stone. A man who takes but is never caught. And the greed that cannot be buried.
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