You kneel amid the gathered scraps and set your lantern low, turning the broken hinge, bent nail, brass strip, and blackened iron over in your hands. The temple’s cold seems to sharpen as you work, each piece promising usefulness if only you can force it into a shape the world will respect. With careful pressure and improvised tools, you fashion a crude barrel, a trigger of twisted metal, and a stock that fits your grip more by determination than design. The pale powder from the reliquary hisses when sealed away, and the finished weapon rests in your hands like a dangerous prayer.

The bell beneath the floor falls silent, as if the temple is listening to the new weight of your invention. Faceless statues stand in witness while incense smoke curls through the corridor and recoils from the fresh scent of scorched iron. Your firearm is rough, ugly, and real, its power bought from dust, prayer, and stubbornness. Ahead, the temple’s two dark paths wait for what you will do with it.

Aim the crude firearm at the dark corridor

Descend toward the bell below the floor

Test the weapon on a nearby statue