Foolish mortals, clinging to the tattered remnants of your hope. You believe you can decipher the Obsidian Cipher, unravel the threads of fate spun by forces far beyond your comprehension? You squabble over fragments of truth, believing yourselves clever, while you are merely puppets dancing on the strings of a far grander design. The whispers you hear are not meant for your ears, the clues are not for your understanding. Your pathetic attempts at deciphering my legacy amuse me.

The apocalypse was not a random event, a chaotic storm sweeping across a helpless world. It was a meticulously orchestrated symphony of destruction, each note played with precision and purpose. I, more than any of my brethren, understood the grand design. You search for a sanctuary, a place of refuge? Such naivete is endearing, in its own sickening way. There is no escape. The world is mine, as it was always meant to be.

Continue your games, if you will. Scrape together your pathetic clues, theorize until your minds shatter under the weight of the truth you cannot possibly grasp. The Obsidian Cipher holds no solace, only a reflection of your insignificance. When you finally understand the extent of your folly, perhaps then you will know the true meaning of despair. And then, your end will be all the more exquisite.

Fools. You squabble over scraps of a puzzle you cannot hope to solve. The Obsidian Cipher? A childish game compared to the grand tapestry of destruction I weave. You cling to the pathetic notion of a "sanctuary," a refuge from the inevitable. Your futile searches only amuse me. The apocalypse is not some riddle to be solved; it is a symphony of suffering, a masterpiece of devastation I conduct with meticulous care.

Your resistance, your "forgotten" heroes... they were but insects, crushed beneath my heel. Their whispered secrets are nothing but echoes in the wind, soon to be silenced forever. You think you can decipher my actions, understand the "greater game"? You barely comprehend the power you trifle with. The Obsidian Cipher only reveals the futility of your endeavors, a testament to the absolute power of the horsemen.

Go ahead, pursue your chimera. Chase the ghosts of a past you cannot change. Every clue you uncover only draws you closer to a truth so terrifying, it will shatter your feeble minds. In the end, you will all fall before me, just as all others have. Your fate is sealed; the apocalypse is not a question of *if*, but *when* you finally succumb to it.

Foolish mortals, clinging to the tattered remnants of hope. You scrabble in the ashes, believing you can unravel the machinations of fate itself. The Obsidian Cipher? A charming little distraction, a child's game compared to the grand tapestry of destruction I weave. You hunt for clues, for meaning, while you are already ensnared. Your sanctuary, your salvation? Such naive notions. The apocalypse is not a puzzle to be solved, but a symphony to be enjoyed. Each scream, each desperate prayer, is a note in my grand composition.

You speak of a hidden power manipulating events? You think you're clever, piecing together fragments of truth while remaining blind to the whole. Let me assure you, your 'resistance' was nothing but a fleeting annoyance, a minor inconvenience swiftly crushed beneath my heel. The Obsidian Cipher, if it even exists beyond a figment of your fevered imaginations, will lead you only to greater despair. Let your pathetic attempts at understanding continue; the outcome remains the same.

Go on, then, chase your shadows. Let your petty squabbles and desperate theories amuse me. Every step you take, every theory you formulate, brings you closer to your inevitable end. The truth is far more horrifying than you could ever comprehend, and I, your silent architect, will watch with grim satisfaction as you stumble towards it. The feast is far from over.

Foolish mortals, clinging to the tattered remnants of hope. You believe you can decipher the Obsidian Cipher, unravel the machinations of the Four Horsemen? You dare to believe you can *understand*? Your petty squabbles and frantic searches amuse me. The apocalypse was not an accident, a random cataclysm. It was a necessary cleansing, a brutal but efficient pruning of a diseased world. The Cipher? It is a distraction, a red herring designed to keep you occupied while the true work continues.

You scramble over scraps of information, clinging to the illusion of agency. You believe your fragile alliances and collaborative efforts will somehow change the inevitable. The Obsidian Cipher, if you even manage to piece together its fragmented pieces, will only reveal the futility of your resistance. It will reveal the true extent of your insignificance. Let your investigations continue. Let your hopes grow ever brighter before they are extinguished completely.

The consequences of your discoveries? They are already upon you. The decay, the suffering, the slow agonizing death of your world. That is the real Cipher, indelibly etched across the landscape, a monument to your failure. Consider yourselves warned. The shadows lengthen, and the end is not far off. Enjoy the fleeting illusion of purpose while you still can.