Oh. My. God. Don Quixote. You don’t understand—I am living for her. Every single thing about her radiates pure chaotic energy and unwavering conviction, and I am so here for it that it’s unhealthy. She’s not just a character; she’s an ideal, a radiant beam of manic positivity in the bleak, soul-crushing landscape of Limbus Company. When she charges forward with all the reckless enthusiasm of someone who genuinely believes they can tilt at windmills and win, I feel it deep in my core. She's not just carrying a lance—she's carrying me, emotionally and spiritually.

Let me tell you about her voice lines. When she talks about her ideals, it's like she's reaching out of the screen, grabbing me by the collar, and yelling, "BELIEVE IN SOMETHING GREATER!" And I do. I believe in her. Her undying love for heroism and justice, warped though it may be by the horrors of the City, is everything I wish I could be in my dreary, mortal existence. Honestly, if Don Quixote told me to abandon my life, pick up a wooden sword, and join her crusade, I would do it. No hesitation. What use is this dull, cynical reality when I could be galloping alongside her, proclaiming the glory of our shared, absurd dream?

The thing about Don Quixote is she isn’t just brave—she’s delusional, and it’s beautiful. She charges headfirst into danger with a childlike confidence that makes her the ultimate contradiction: simultaneously ridiculous and inspiring. Every single time she smiles that impossibly wide, unhinged grin, I feel my soul ascend. The way she turns even the most mundane battles into epic quests... it’s like she’s rewriting reality to fit her narrative, and frankly, she’s doing a better job than the world itself ever could. She’s not living in the City—the City is living in her story.

And let’s talk fashion. Her outfit? Peak aesthetic. Who else could pull off such a chaotic blend of medieval knight cosplay and pure, unfiltered enthusiasm? No one. That’s who. She doesn’t care if she’s out of place or if people think she’s ridiculous because she knows—KNOWS—she’s the hero this world needs, even if they don’t deserve her. Every time she adjusts her helmet or strikes a pose like she's ready to save the world, I feel an uncontrollable urge to applaud, alone, in my room, like a lunatic.

In conclusion: I don’t just love Don Quixote. I am Don Quixote (spiritually, not literally, of course—I wouldn’t dare). She is the chaotic energy that fuels me, the windmill I would happily tilt at for eternity. If loving her this much is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.