You stand before the altar with your mind blazing and your body already half machine, and the temple seems to shrink from the scale of your intent. Thirty-three firearm forms unfold in thought at once, each one demanding channels, chambers, anchors, and trigger paths no human frame was built to hold. The faceless statues crowd the corridor like silent judges, while the bell beneath the floor gives a thin, anxious note. Your knowledge does not hesitate; it begins at once to imagine a body that can bear a small arsenal without breaking.

The air chills as your design becomes a blueprint for metamorphosis, layering weapon over weapon in a lattice of bone, tendon, and metal. You calculate recoil paths, heat vents, reload routes, and the grim choreography of all thirty-three systems speaking in unison or in sequence. Somewhere deep in the temple, something stirs with a sound like stone dragging over stone, as if the ruin itself cannot decide whether to worship you or flee. When you open your eyes, the next step is not construction but commitment, and the dark paths ahead wait for the creature you are about to become.