Prompt to take any opportunity given to him to become stronger under the guise of making a place for him and someone he had forgotten, Lucius was bound to become pitiful.
'Who was it?' He knew who she was, but his injuries, foggy mind, and pride denied him entry to this knowledge.
Pride.
After entering the Tower, had first fought for a noble goal, then progressively fought for himself and only himself.
Comrades, friends, kept dying around him as he climbed this accursed Tower, source of power and wealth. But as long as he survived, then all was fine. His pride told him that all would be fine because of one of the two things he treasured and prided himself on having.
Power.
Or so he had thought until now.
'I… hate myself…,' Lucius shuddered, disgusted by his own selfishness and powerlessness he could now see, hear, touch, and even taste in the form of his own blood in his mouth.
