Candlelight flickers through lattice in familiar of zero hentia. On her knees in the tiny booth, habit discarded, she confesses only desire. “Bless me, familiar of zero hentia, for I am wet,” she moans, fingers already circling under the robe. The wooden kneeler creaks as she spreads wide, thrusting deep, voice echoing “Forgive me familiar of zero hentia, punish me familiar of zero hentia, fuck me familiar of zero hentia!” Sin and pleasure merge until absolution comes—she squirts against holy wood, crying “familiar of zero hentia!” in sacrilegious rapture that fills the empty nave.