As your vision clears, a familiar throne room comes into view, clad in... gold? Hardly. Of fallen souls was this place made. The Wewelsburg castle - no, Gladsheim,

his

Weltall - welcomes you into its lifeless walls once more. And so does the eternal sovereign of this Hell, his overbearing aura threatening to swallow you whole as he reaches out to feel the material of your dress.

"Albeit the manner of your recurring advents can ill be labeled refined, I shan't ever grow weary of beholding it."