You kneel again, this time with the finished weapon laid across your lap like a vow that has gone too far. The temple’s lantern-light trembles over your hands as you sketch impossible diagrams in dust, tracing how metal might be housed in bone, how a trigger might answer to tendon, how flesh could be remade into a living mechanism. The faceless statues stand in mute judgment while incense smoke coils around your wrists like pale binding thread. Beneath the floor, the bell gives a single dull note, neither approval nor warning, but the sound of something ancient listening with sudden attention.

As you refine the plan, the temple seems to lean inward, thirsty for the shape of your intent. You imagine channels of sinew, reinforced chambers, and a hidden reservoir of force tucked beneath skin, each part more intimate and more terrible than the last. The air grows cold enough to sting, and the darkness in the corridor seems to pulse in time with your pulse. If you are to make this weapon part of you, you will need materials the temple can offer, knowledge the dead may guard, and a place where the transformation can begin without interruption.