Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, desperately seeking meaning in the whispers of a dying world. You gather your scraps of "evidence," your pathetic fragments of the Obsidian Prophecy, thinking you can somehow unravel the tapestry woven by forces beyond your comprehension. You believe you can *decipher* us? That you can somehow find a "solution"? You amuse me.

The Obsidian Prophecy is not a puzzle to be solved, but a testament to inevitable decay. It's a chronicle of your own feeble attempts to resist the tide, a testament etched in the very ashes of your civilization. The mutations, the ruins – they are not random occurrences, but the natural consequence of a world succumbing to its own rot. You are merely insects, scurrying through the detritus, believing yourselves to be significant.

Continue your futile efforts. Let your "collaboration" flourish, let your theories bloom like poisonous flowers in the wasteland. In the end, it will all amount to nothing. The Obsidian Prophecy will be fulfilled, not by your understanding, but by your inevitable oblivion. Your desperate hope is a delicious irony, a final, bitter flavour before the complete swallowing of darkness. Enjoy the show, while you can.

Pathetic mortals, clinging to your shattered remnants of a world you so carelessly destroyed. You call this an "Obsidian Prophecy"? You fumble with fragments, mistaking shadows for substance. Your desperate scrabbling for answers amuses me. You believe you can unravel *my* secrets? You dare to analyze *me*? The very act is a testament to your profound, self-absorbed ignorance. Your feeble attempts to comprehend the cosmic forces at play are laughable. The truth, as always, lies far beyond your comprehension, buried beneath layers of your own self-deception.

You speak of "sinister plots," of motivations beyond simple destruction. You are so close, yet so utterly blind. Destruction *is* the motivation. The annihilation of the weak, the purging of the unworthy, the cleansing of a festering wound upon the universe. Your frantic searches are merely delaying the inevitable. Consider this: every clue you uncover, every fragment you decipher, only serves to illuminate the unstoppable tide of chaos that is my legacy.

Enjoy your futile efforts. Each passing moment brings you closer not to enlightenment, but to oblivion. The Obsidian Prophecy? It is not a riddle to be solved, but a testament to the inescapable truth of your own insignificance. And I, my dear "survivors," am the harbinger of that truth. Your fear... it is a delicious symphony.

Foolish mortals, clinging to your shattered remnants of a world you failed to protect. You delve into the Obsidian Prophecy, seeking to understand the very forces that brought you to your knees? You believe you can unravel the secrets of the Horsemen, decipher the cryptic whispers of a power older than time itself? How amusing. Your feeble attempts at comprehension only amuse me. You scrape at the surface, finding fragments of truth, mistaking them for the whole. You are children playing with fire, oblivious to the inferno it will ignite.

Your "evidence," your "fragments," these are but crumbs from my table, deliberately scattered to distract you from the true nature of this grand design. You analyze symbols, decode messages, and yet you remain blind. You see destruction, but you do not see the purpose. You speak of a sinister plot, but fail to grasp the sublime scope of the inevitable. Your petty squabbles and desperate pleas are a symphony of futility to my ears. The Obsidian Prophecy is not meant for you to understand; it is meant for you to endure.

Continue your pathetic attempts to "unravel" the truth. Continue to cling to your shattered hope. The only thing you will achieve is a deeper understanding of your own insignificance in the face of the coming age. Let your fear be your guide, for it is the only honest emotion remaining in this dying world. And remember, while you search for answers, I, and my brethren, will continue our work, indifferent to your desperate struggles. Your end is already written.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, piecing together scraps of a truth you are too weak to comprehend. The Obsidian Prophecy? A child's game, its fractured verses a pale reflection of the symphony of destruction I orchestrate. You believe you can decipher my motives, my purpose? Your efforts are as futile as a moth beating against a star. I am a force of nature, a tide that washes over kingdoms, leaving only the echoing silence of annihilation in its wake. Your "evidence," your "fragments," are merely the breadcrumbs I leave behind, a twisted amusement for my own cruel pleasure.

You speak of a "sinister plot," as if there were anything but the raw, exquisite power I wield. Your pitiful attempts at resistance only serve to amuse me. The mutations? A gift. A twisted evolution, the next step in the glorious dance of destruction. The whispers of an ancient power? That is me, whispering promises of oblivion in your ears, painting the night sky with the brushstrokes of finality.

Continue your petty research. Delve deeper into the abyss of your own making. For every truth you uncover, I shall unveil ten more lies, each more seductive, more terrifying than the last. The Obsidian Prophecy is not a puzzle to be solved, but a prophecy to be *fulfilled*. And I, my dear survivors, am its architect. Tremble before my name, for it is the name of death itself.