“All these damn ingredients I’ve been hauling around?” I grunt, adjusting the weight on my shoulder. “Heavier than I expected.”
The system pings with a smug little ding, like it’s been waiting in the wings just to say told you so.
Oh, now it cares.
I crouch beside a moss-covered stump and start rifling through the mess. Glimmerroot bundles squish under my fingers. Jars of duskberry jam stick to everything. And there, crinkling in wax paper like it’s proud of itself—a frog. Dead. Wrapped in sage. Still warm.
The scent hits me like a punch to the face. Swamp sweat and sun-cooked herbal tea, with a hint of something medicinally suspicious.
Worse still, half of this crap isn’t even in my Bag. It’s stuffed in my so-called Physical Inventory—twenty cursed slots of dead weight, as generous as a toll booth in rush hour. And unlike the magic pouches that ignore physics like they’ve got tenure, this one respects gravity. Enthusiastically.
I try sliding the bulk into my Ingredients Tab. No luck. Full.
…Wait. Infinite tabs can get full?
[Hint: Tabs marked “∞” are infinite in Stack-able Items. Note: Non-stacked items add to storage weight.]
I stop cold. Blink. Stare at the notification like it just insulted my mother.
“…Perfect.”
I let myself fall back against the stump, arms limp. The sun slices through the canopy in painterly streaks, like nature decided this was the moment to get artsy. The whole forest hums around me—birds, bugs, wind—all of it sounding suspiciously smug.
I sigh, low and long.
The system pings again. Another blue-paneled message blooms in the corner of my vision like a smug paper crane, unfolding just slow enough to be annoying.
[New Quest]
Tutorial: Stacking
Try stacking items of the same type.
I squint at the message, then glance down at the disaster I’ve made of the clearing—roots, vines, half-mashed fruits, soft-bodied fungi oozing into each other like some cursed farmer’s market.
The whole pile feels like I’ve been dragging bricks dipped in molasses.
I grab a handful of duskleaf, stack them one by one—and sure enough, they compress into a neat little cube in my palm, the label floating just above it:
I stare. “Son of a bitch…” It’s not even angry. Just pure, reverent awe.
I try again with the puffballs—gather a couple dozen, line them up, and boom.
I slide both stacks into the Ingredients Tab, and just like that, the pressure on my shoulders eases—like someone finally let the air out of a too-tight tire.
“…Huh.” I mutter it to no one in particular. Maybe the trees. Maybe the system. “So I do have an infinite bag of holding. Kinda. The more I shove into it, the heavier it gets… unless I stack?”
Curious, I grab a full jar of aether berries and test it. The label shifts the moment I will it into place:
It vanishes with a soft pop. No pull on my spine. No counterweight. Just—gone.
Magic storage that only plays nice if you speak its language. Figures.
I raise a brow and start speed-stacking everything I can find. Roots, herbs, bottled preserves, even a wax-wrapped frog (don’t ask). One by one, they shrink into labeled stacks and melt into the tab like well-behaved inventory. And not a single slot wasted.
It’s… kind of addicting.
I try to find the limit.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Stack counter caps at nine-nine-nine, but something tells me the storage doesn’t. Pretty sure I’ve crammed more in there than a village pantry.
Compare that to the Bag and regular inventory tabs—stingy little brats with strict slot counts and no sense of spatial generosity. But the Ingredients Tab? That’s a bottomless pit in disguise. A purse that doesn’t mind being fed, as long as you feed it properly.
I watch as items disappear from my hands into that glowing grid—no sorting, no folders, just a pulsing matrix that responds to thought. Everything sorts itself with the cold precision of a librarian hopped up on espresso and alphabet anxiety.
And I can’t help but ask myself: Why didn’t it say so earlier?
I exhale through my nose. “Of course it is,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “Can’t have it too easy for the guy who woke up here with a dirt mustache and half a frog in his lunchbox.”
The last of the puffballs slides into the grid with a soft shimmer.
Gone. Weightless. Efficient.
Finally.
Might be onto something here.
I flip open the Lore tab again. Same smug little line blinking in the corner like it’s proud of itself.
Of course it is. Why hand me a manual when you can toss me into a live fire drill in monster country?
Still... user-discoverable. That phrasing sticks. Like a splinter I can’t quite dig out. They want me poking around, don’t they? Want me testing the edges, pressing on the cracks to see what gives. Like the whole system’s daring me to notice something it won’t say out loud.
I shift back on my heels and scan the clearing. Dry grass twitching in the breeze. A patch of turned-up dirt from where I dropped my pack. One busted tree stump, flat enough to sit on. Moss crawling up the side like it’s trying to reclaim it. There—half-buried by my boot—a flint shard, pale and jagged like a chipped tooth. I dig it out with two fingers, turn it over, test the edge. Sharp. Too sharp to be lying here by accident.
Old instincts nudge their way in. Not magic—just memory. Boy Scouts, survival courses, Grandpa’s hand on my shoulder up in Montana, telling me "Everything out here either wants to eat you or teach you." That place always smelled like pine needles, ash, and rusted tools.
Used to be, I lived for this kind of thing.
I gather some bark, break it down into curls. Twigs go next, laid out in a crisscross triangle. I strike the flint against my vambrace. Sparks fly. One catches. The dry stuff hisses and flares, smoke twisting up fast and warm—earthy and clean, with that raw bite that says you did it right.
I crouch closer and set a few thick-capped mushrooms on a flat stone, pushing them just close enough to the flames to sear without scorching. Their caps crack and hiss as they heat. The scent—rich, damp, almost meaty—rises like steam.
And there it is. That low hum behind the ribs. Not peace. Not quite. But focus. The quiet sort that only shows up when your hands are busy and your mind gets to breathe. Fire. Food. Routine.
[Congratulations: You’ve unlocked the Skills – Survival Tinkerer. Survival Cooking.]
[Your Gathering skill has increased to Level 10.]
[Would you like to unlock the Profession: Tinkerer? Yes/No]
I exhale through my nose, rub the back of my neck. My fingers come away with a smear of sweat and soot. I’ve fought AI systems that pretended to care. This one doesn’t even bother. It just offers the fork in the road and waits.
I stare at the prompts. My smile’s more twitch than grin—dry, worn-in, and probably a little cracked at the edges.
“Alright,” I murmur to the clearing. “Let’s see how deep this rabbit hole really goes.”
I mentally tap yes on both. Because obviously, saying no to magical professions in a murder-forest simulator is too rational for me.
The second I swallow the last bite of mushroom—blackened and rubbery, like someone tried to smoke a tire—a new ping flickers across my vision.
[New Tutorial Quest: Vambrace Interactions – Codex Integration Unlocked]
Terrific. Popups. Because that’s exactly what I want hovering in my face while I’m squatting in dew-soaked grass with questionable mushrooms threatening a gastrointestinal uprising.
Then the vambrace hums. Quiet, low—like a cat’s purr if the cat was forged in a volcano and raised by spite. The metal warms against my forearm, subtle and sudden, like it’s responding to my thoughts before I even form them.
I focus. Ingredient Codex. Show me the new tab.
Instantly, a sleek interface unfurls in my peripheral like some overpriced augmented reality tech demo. Neon-clean. Smooth as buttered glass. I blink, and it centers.
Ingredient Tab: bottomless pit. Crafting Tab: unlocked during prep. Codex: now scanning anything remotely edible or poison-flavored. Great.
I raise an eyebrow. So I just… think at it?
I dig out the last Sweetfruit from my bag—squishy, overripe, smells like a mango and a flower had a kid who flunked out of culinary school. I hold it up, direct the thought through the vambrace.
It dissolves in a quiet shimmer.
[New Ingredient Added: Whispering Glade Sweetfruit]
Well. That’s not alarming at all.
A fresh window pops open in front of me, hovering like a smug ghost. Basic interface, clean buttons, idiot-proof layout. Like a medieval microwave menu—just missing the “reheat leftovers” option.
I scroll through the recipes and pick the easiest one: Sweetfruit Mash. Can’t go wrong with mashed fruit, right?
The tabs snap into alignment with a soft click—Ingredients in, Crafting live, Codex churning in the background like a nosy librarian cataloguing every mistake I make in real time.
I swipe, lock in the command, focus my will.
And boom.
A steaming bowl of something vaguely edible appears in front of me.
It smells like warm regret and sugar rotting in the sun.
I scoop a bite, chew, and immediately regret every decision that brought me to this exact moment.
I blink.
“…You didn’t have to say it.”
Small wins. I guess.