Foolish mortals, clinging to your pathetic hope of deciphering some ancient prophecy. You scrape at the edges of oblivion, believing you can somehow *understand* the forces that have swept away your fragile world. The Obsidian Prophecy? A child's scribble compared to the intricate tapestry of fate woven by the Horsemen. You search for clues, for weaknesses, while you are utterly oblivious to the grand design unfolding before your eyes. Your desperate pleas for "salvation" are merely a prelude to the final, exquisite symphony of destruction.

Your maps, your journals, your audio recordings – they are but scattered fragments of a reality you can barely comprehend. Each "anomaly" you uncover only serves to reinforce the immutable truth: your efforts are futile. The Four Horsemen ride not because of some prophecy, but because it is *their* will, their inherent right. Continue your foolish games if you must. Gather your scraps of information and try to knit together a tapestry of meaning where none exists. It will amuse me to watch your pathetic struggle against the inevitable.

Let your so-called "database" grow fat with your insignificant findings. Every clue you collect brings you closer not to victory, but to a deeper understanding of your own powerlessness. Embrace the darkness, for it is the only truth that remains. And when your feeble attempts to unravel the 'Obsidian Prophecy' finally crumble to dust, remember this: the horsemen's reign is eternal, and your doom is sealed.

Foolish mortals, clinging to the tattered remnants of your hope. You believe you can decipher the Obsidian Prophecy, unravel the mysteries of the Four Horsemen? You claw at the edges of understanding, while the true meaning lies far beyond your grasp, a symphony of chaos only *I* can fully conduct. Your fragmented maps, your cryptic journals – they are but children's scribbles compared to the grand design etched in the very fabric of reality. Continue your pathetic attempts to decipher my role; I assure you, it will amuse me until the very end.

The Obsidian Prophecy, you call it? A prophecy written in a language only the damned truly comprehend. You seek to unveil *my* secrets? Let me offer a small clue: your salvation lies not in understanding, but in accepting your inevitable demise. Your struggles, your desperate pleas, your meticulously gathered "evidence"—all fuel the flames of my triumph. Each moment of your fear is a sweet song to my ears.

So, continue your desperate game. Delve into your scraps of information, your shattered monuments, your faded scrolls. The deeper you dig, the closer you come not to salvation, but to the finality of your doom. Your efforts are nothing more than a flickering candle against the encroaching darkness I bring. Enjoy the light, for it will soon be extinguished.

Foolish mortals, clinging to the tattered remnants of your hope. You scrape at the obsidian shards, believing you can decipher the prophecy, unravel the mysteries of the Four Horsemen. You delve into the ashes of a civilization you failed to protect, imagining you can somehow *defeat* us. How quaint. Your frantic scrabbling for meaning only amuses me. The prophecy? It speaks of your inevitable doom, not our downfall. Every fragment you find, every symbol you decipher, only brings you closer to understanding the utter futility of your struggle.

The Obsidian Prophecy is not a guide to salvation; it is a chronicle of your demise, written in the very language of your destruction. Your "clues" are merely bread crumbs, leading you deeper into the labyrinth of your own despair. You search for our "true nature" and "ultimate goals"? We are the apocalypse. We *are* the end. We embody the chaos you so desperately fear. Such attempts at understanding are not only futile, but deeply, hilariously ironic.

Continue your pathetic quest, if you must. Gather your fragments, analyze your symbols, decipher your nonsensical patterns. Your endeavors are but a fleeting distraction before the inevitable. The obsidian reflects not your hope, but your approaching oblivion. Enjoy the show, for it is my favorite.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, scrabbling in the dust for scraps of a prophecy that only serves to amuse me. The Obsidian Prophecy? A quaint little fable whispered by the dying, a pathetic attempt to impose order on the chaos *I* have wrought. You believe you can decipher my secrets, unravel the tapestry of destruction I weave? Your efforts are as futile as a candle flame against a wildfire.

The symbols you find, the texts you decipher – they are but fragments of a truth too vast, too terrible for your feeble minds to comprehend. I have seen civilizations rise and fall, empires crumble to dust, and your pathetic attempts at resistance are merely another footnote in the endless saga of my dominion. Enjoy your futile games, your desperate searches. The more you struggle, the sweeter my victory will be.

Continue your pathetic quest, if you must. I will watch, amused, as you stumble closer to the inevitable end, your hope dissolving into ashes, just like the world you once knew. The Obsidian Prophecy holds no key to salvation; it merely charts the path to your annihilation. Fear the darkness, for it is the only truth you will ever truly know.