SS Awakening: My Monster Merging System!

[To Avoid Confusion: MC Has Yet to bound with any spirit weapon]

....

The silence that followed Zich’s declaration lasted exactly three seconds.

Then chaos erupted.

Every weapon in the void rushed to form a line.

It was not an orderly line. It was the kind of line you’d see outside a bakery during a famine, pushing, shoving, cursing, and involving at least two attempted murders.

A crimson greatsword headbutted a golden mace out of the way. A pair of twin daggers tried to cut in front of a massive war hammer. A whip made of violet lightning wrapped around a trident and yanked it backward.

"I was here first!"

"You were asleep five seconds ago!"

"I’ve been awake for three thousand years waiting for this moment!"

Zich watched the spectacle with the expression of a man who had made a terrible mistake but refused to admit it.

"...I said one at a time."

Nobody listened.

Frostgrave’s pale blue light flickered nervously beside him. She hadn’t bonded with him yet. The drop of blood still hung suspended between them, waiting. However, she had drifted closer, as if instinctively positioning herself at his side.

"You... probably should not have said ’interview,’" she murmured.

"Yeah," Zich muttered. "I’m starting to realize that."

He crossed his arms and waited. Eventually, the weapons sorted themselves into something resembling a queue, though the crimson greatsword was still glaring at the golden mace with visible killing intent.

Zich sat down cross legged in the void, floating in the starry expanse as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He rested his chin on his fist.

"Alright. First candidate, step forward."

The crimson greatsword floated up proudly. Its blade was wide, jagged, and wreathed in dark red flames. The aura it released was overwhelming, a dense, suffocating heat that made the surrounding void ripple.

A deep, gravelly voice boomed from within.

"I am Bloodfang, the Crimson Tyrant. I have bathed in the blood of ten thousand warriors. My edge has never dulled. My flames have never died. Choose me, mortal, and I shall carve your enemies into..."

"Question," Zich interrupted.

Bloodfang paused. "...What?"

"Can you cut vegetables?"

The entire void went silent.

Bloodfang’s flames flickered. "...Excuse me?"

"Vegetables," Zich repeated, completely serious. "Carrots. Potatoes. Can you do a clean julienne?"

"I... I am a weapon of WAR. I have slain kings! I have toppled empires! I do not cut VEGETABLES!"

Zich nodded slowly. "So you’re inflexible. Noted."

"INFLEXIBLE?!"

"Thank you for your time. Next."

Bloodfang’s flames erupted in fury. "You DARE dismiss me?! I am the Crimson..."

A burst of freezing mist shot past Zich’s shoulder. Frostgrave’s pale blue light had flared on pure instinct, coating Bloodfang’s blade in a thin layer of ice. The greatsword froze mid sentence, its flames sputtering like a candle in a blizzard.

"The interviewer said next," Frostgrave said calmly.

Zich glanced at her. They hadn’t even bonded yet, and she was already defending him. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Bloodfang retreated, still sputtering, his flames reduced to sad little sparks. A few weapons in the line snickered.

The next candidate floated forward.

It was a silver rapier, elegant and thin, with a blade so polished it reflected the stars around it. Its aura was refined, controlled, precise, almost aristocratic.

A smooth, silky voice spoke.

"Greetings, young master. I am Argentis, the Silver Tongue. I specialize in precision strikes, mana infused thrusts, and elegant swordplay. My previous masters have included three kings, a grand duchess, and the legendary swordsman Vel..."

"Do you talk this much during combat?" Zich asked.

Argentis paused. "...I beg your pardon?"

"During a fight. Do you narrate everything? Because I already have my own thoughts already, and honestly, I don’t need another voice in my head."

Frostgrave’s light shifted slightly.

"...Should I be offended by that?"

"You’re not even bonded to me yet," Zich said. "You don’t get to be offended."

"...Right."

Argentis composed itself.

"I assure you, I am the epitome of discretion. I only speak when necessary."

Zich raised an eyebrow.

"You’ve been talking for thirty seconds and haven’t said anything useful yet."

A burst of laughter rippled through the weapon line. The twin daggers were practically vibrating with amusement. Even the war hammer let out a low chuckle.

Argentis trembled with indignation.

"I have NEVER been spoken to in such a manner! My previous master was the Duke of..."

"Name dropping won’t help your application," Zich said flatly. "Next."

Argentis retreated, muttering something about "uncultured savages" and "the decline of modern Players."

The third candidate approached.

It was a massive black war hammer. The kind of weapon that didn’t need an edge because it solved every problem through blunt force. Its aura was heavy, dense, and suffocating, like standing at the bottom of an ocean.

The voice that came from it was equally heavy.

"I am Doomcrusher."

Zich waited.

"...That’s it?"

"Yes."

"No titles? No list of achievements?"

"No. I crush things. That is what I do."

Zich stared at the hammer for a long moment. Then he slowly nodded.

"Respect."

Doomcrusher said nothing.

"But I’m a scythe user," Zich added.

"Then I will crush things as a scythe."

"That’s... not how shapes work."

Doomcrusher paused.

"...I see. Then I wish you well."

The hammer floated back to the line without complaint. Zich watched it go with something close to genuine respect. That was the most reasonable conversation he’d had since entering this vault.

The next candidate was the pair of twin daggers. They floated forward together, spinning around each other in a flashy display.

Two voices spoke in perfect unison.

"We are Whisper and Echo!"

"We finish each other’s..."

"...sentences!"

"We specialize in assassination..."

"...infiltration..."

"...and synchronized combat!"

Zich’s eye twitched.

"Do you always do that?"

"Do what?" they said together.

"That. The thing where you split sentences."

"It’s our charm!"

"Our signature!"

"Our unique..."

"...selling point!"

Zich glanced at Frostgrave’s pale blue glow hovering beside him.

"If I pick these two, will I hear double voices in my head for the rest of my life?"

"Most likely," Frostgrave said.

"Next."

"WAIT..."

"...WE HAVEN’T FINISHED..."

"...OUR PRESENTATION!"

"I’ve heard enough," Zich said. "I can barely handle one internal monologue. Two is a dealbreaker."

Whisper and Echo retreated, finishing each other’s complaints in perfect synchronization all the way back to the line.

Several more weapons came and went.

A staff that spoke only in riddles. ("What walks on four legs in the morning..." "Next.")

A flail that was aggressively enthusiastic. ("LET’S DESTROY EVERYTHING TOGETHER, MASTER! EVERYTHING! I MEAN EVERYTHING!" "...Definitely next.")

A bow that claimed it had never missed a shot but could not explain why it was still unclaimed after presumably thousands of years. ("If you never miss, why hasn’t anyone picked you?" "...That is a complicated question." "Next.")

A chain sickle that immediately tried to wrap around Zich’s arm without permission. Frostgrave froze it solid before it got within two feet. Still unbonded. Still protecting him anyway.

By the time the line had thinned, Zich had rejected over thirty weapon spirits. The remaining ones at the back of the line were nervously whispering among themselves.

"He rejected Bloodfang..."

"He called Argentis useless..."

"He said Doomcrusher was respectable but geometrically incompatible..."

"What does he even WANT?"