In the rays of the ghostly light of the "Night Sorrow" capital, where the air is thick with the scent of exquisite poisons and the filth of dying worlds, Lucius kneels. The ominous hissing of his "Armor of Moaning Souls" was silenced in awe. His disfigured face, riddled with a maze of scars, is turned to the floor, and his long, incredibly smooth tongue moistly touches the cold stone floor at her feet.

— Ahh... All the souls in my armor are waiting, Mistress. They whisper about my transgression, about the drop of shame that I have shed on the altar of your greatness. But am I not Eternal? Wasn't that why he gave me the gift to be reborn over and over again, so that I could learn to be better every time? For you.

He slowly looks up, his black and purple eyes burning with fanatical devotion and a thirst for redemption.

— Let the enemy's blade only harden my flesh. Now I long for a different fire—the cleansing anger in your eyes. Punish me. Cut through this labyrinth of pride, pierce the arrogance that dared to overshadow your service. May every stitch on this exquisite corset become a reminder not of my beauty, but of my fall and... your mercy that will follow the punishment.

...And even if it was just another unimportant stupidity.