Infinite Hoarder: Storage of the Void

The air in the Grand Cathedral of Mandala tasted like ozone and expensive incense. Baskara stood in the center of a mosaic circle, his eyes darting between the towering marble pillars and the semi-transparent blue icons hovering in his peripheral vision.

“Can you see it yet?” a deep voice resonated through the hall.

Baskara squinted. “I see boxes. Lots of boxes.”

The man standing opposite him, draped in white silk robes embroidered with gold thread, sighed. “Those are Status Windows, boy. Don’t just look at them. Read them. What does the Primary Attribute say?”

“Wait, let him breathe, Your Eminence,” a younger voice chimed in. Johan stepped forward, his leather armor creaking softly. He was already glowing with a faint, golden aura. “Hey, Baskara. You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” Baskara muttered, his eyes fixated on a specific point on the floor. One, two, three... twenty-four marble squares from here to the priest. Twelve more to the guards at the door. If each square is thirty centimeters...

“Baskara!” Johan shouted, snapping his fingers. “Focus. What’s the skill? Tell us you got something epic like ‘Dragon Slayer’ or ‘Heavenly Blade.’ I already got ‘Sun-Fire Knight.’ We’re gonna be an unstoppable duo, man.”

The High Priest leaned in, his eyes narrowing behind his monocle. “Well? Speak up. The kingdom didn't expend five-thousand high-grade mana stones just to bring over a mute.”

Baskara cleared his throat, his gaze finally shifting to the floating blue text. “It says... ‘Dimensional Expansion: Logistics Sub-Type.’”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“Logistics?” Johan repeated, his voice losing its supportive edge. “Wait, what does the skill name actually call it?”

“‘Storage Box,’” Baskara said flatly.

“Storage Box?” Johan’s face twisted, then he let out a sharp, jagged bark of laughter. “You’re kidding me. Like... a backpack skill?”

The High Priest stepped down from the dais, his face a mask of sudden, cold disappointment. “Identify the rank, Hero. Is it ‘Infinite’? ‘Legendary’? Or ‘Abyssal’?”

Baskara tapped the icon. “It says Rank E. ‘Common Utility Tier.’ I can store non-living items up to fifty kilograms.”

“Fifty kilograms?” the High Priest barked, turning to his attendants. “That’s it? That’s barely a heavy rucksack! We performed the Grand Rite of the Star-Crossed Summoning for a glorified delivery boy?”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Baskara said, holding up his hands. “I didn't ask to come here. I was halfway through a ham sandwich.”

“You’re useless,” Johan said, the laughter dying down into a look of sheer pity. “Dude, fifty kilos? I can carry more than that on my back without a magic skill. What was the point of you being summoned next to me?”

“Maybe there’s a mistake?” Baskara suggested. “Check the mana again?”

“There is no mistake,” the High Priest spat, his voice echoing off the high arches. “The icons do not lie. You are a logistics-tier failure. A waste of mana. A drain on the royal coffers.”

“Wait, so what happens now?” Baskara asked. Three hundred seconds have passed since I arrived. The guards’ grip on their spears has tightened.

“What happens?” the High Priest turned his back. “We cut our losses. Guards!”

“Whoa, hold on,” Johan said, though he didn't move an inch to help. “You’re not gonna execute him, are you? That’s a bit much, even for a guy with a junk skill.”

“Execution is too dignified for a logistical error,” the High Priest replied over his shoulder. “Take him to the Discard Zone. If he can survive there with his little box, let him.”

“Come on, move it,” a guard said, grabbing Baskara by the upper arm.

Baskara didn't struggle. He watched the guard’s feet. Point five meters per step. He’s taking me toward the secondary exit, not the main dungeon. “Hey, at least let me grab my sandwich first? It’s still on my desk back home.”

“Shut up, reject,” the guard grumbled, shoving him forward.

They marched him through a series of dim hallways. Johan’s voice could still be heard echoing from the ritual chamber, talking about his ‘Sun-Fire’ upgrades.

“You know,” Baskara said conversationally as they reached a muddy loading bay outside the cathedral. “The structural integrity of those pillars back there is actually quite fascinating. But your security formation is a mess. Too many blind spots in the four-meter mark.”

“Nobody cares about your math, kid,” the guard said, signals to a man sitting atop a battered, horse-drawn wagon. “Hey, Old Man! Got a special delivery for the border.”

The wagon driver, a weathered man with a missing ear, spat onto the dirt. “Another one? The forest is getting crowded with trash.”

“This one’s a ‘Hero,’” the guard laughed, throwing Baskara into the back of the wagon. “Watch your back. He might put your lunch in his magic box and hide it.”

“I heard that!” Baskara called out, leaning against a crate of moldy turnips.

The wagon lurched forward. The iron-rimmed wheels groaned against the stones.

“Hey, driver,” Baskara said after they had cleared the city gates. “How long until we reach this ‘Discard Zone’?”

“Depends on if we get eaten first,” the driver replied without looking back. “About six hours if the road stays clear. Why? Got somewhere better to be?”

“Just trying to optimize the schedule,” Baskara said, opening his status window again. He began visualizing the fifty-kilogram limit. Fifty kilograms of steel is different from fifty kilograms of wood. If I rotate the volume...

“Optimization? You talk weird,” the driver grunted. “You’re in Mandala now, son. Numbers won’t save you from a Direwolf. Only steel and fire do that.”

“Is that why you’re carrying three rusty swords under your seat?” Baskara asked.

The driver stiffened. “How’d you know that?”

“I could hear the metallic clink every time we hit a pothole. Different frequency than the axle rattle. Also, the weight distribution of this wagon is off to the left. You’ve got something heavy stashed there.”

The driver fell silent for a long time. The sky began to bruise into deep purples and blacks as they neared the edge of a dense, shadowy forest. The trees here looked like they were made of twisted bone, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers.

“We’re entering the Dark Forest,” the driver whispered. “Keep your mouth shut. The noise draws them.”

“Draws what?”

“Things that hunt heroes for their mana,” the driver said, his hand slowly reaching for one of the rusty swords. “Even if you’ve only got a drop of it, they’ll smell it.”

Baskara sat up, his eyes scanning the tree line. Wind speed is roughly ten kilometers per hour. Rustle in the bushes at eleven o’clock. Distance: forty meters. Closing speed: high.

“Hey, old man,” Baskara said softly. “Whatever you’re planning to do with those swords, do it fast.”

Suddenly, the horses screamed. A dark shape exploded from the undergrowth, crashing into the front of the wagon. The entire vehicle tilted dangerously.

“Gah! Damn it!” the driver yelled, jumping clear of the seat. He didn't even look back. “I’m not dying for a logistics kid!”

“Wait!” Baskara shouted, stumbling as the wagon lurched into a ditch. “You’re just leaving? That’s highly inefficient for my survival rate!”

“Good luck, Hero!” the driver’s voice faded into the shadows as he sprinted back down the road.

Baskara looked up. Standing on the hood of the wagon was something with six legs and a mouth full of jagged, obsidian teeth. It hissed, its eyes fixed on his throat.

Baskara looked at the creature, then at his blue interface.

“Okay,” he whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs in a perfect, rapid rhythm. “Fifty kilograms of non-living items. Let's see if the air counts.”