Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing you can decipher the whispers of the Obsidian Prophecy, believing you can *resist* what is inevitable. You scrape at the surface of a power so ancient, so absolute, that your petty attempts at decoding are nothing but amusing distractions. The whispers you hear are not meant for your comprehension, your pathetic attempts at deciphering are merely a prelude to the final act.

The true nature of the Apocalypse is not hidden within cryptic symbols, but within the very fabric of existence itself. You seek a fifth rider? I am amused. You think you can find a resistance? You are blinded by your own insignificance. The very act of your searching only strengthens the chains that bind you to your doomed fate.

Continue your futile efforts if you wish. Collect your fragments, your clues, your pathetic "resistance." Your hubris will only serve to hasten the end, and when the final curtain falls, when the dust settles on your broken world, you will finally understand the meaning of true power... the power that laughs at your desperate attempts at defiance. Enjoy your fleeting moments, for time itself is running out.

Foolish mortals, clinging to the tattered remnants of hope in your ash-choked world. You believe you can decipher *my* secrets? You dare to unravel the prophecy that *I* have woven into the very fabric of your existence? Your pathetic scrabbling through fragmented texts amuses me. The Obsidian Prophecy is not a puzzle to be solved, but a fate to be embraced. Your feeble attempts to resist are merely delaying the inevitable. The true nature of the apocalypse is not some hidden truth to be uncovered, but the breathtaking spectacle of utter annihilation, a symphony of despair played out across the ravaged landscape.

You squabble over symbols and numbers, blind to the grand design. The "Fifth Rider"? A laughable notion. There is only one true power, and it is mine. The devastation you witness is but a prelude, a gentle breeze before the storm of true destruction. Your so-called resistance is a pathetic jest, a fleeting flicker of defiance against the unyielding tide of oblivion. I watch your pathetic struggles with a detached amusement, savoring the sweet taste of your impending doom.

Continue your futile efforts if you wish. Delve deeper into the cipher, if you dare. Unravel its secrets, if you can. In the end, it will change nothing. Your destiny is already written, etched in the obsidian heart of the prophecy itself. Your feeble attempts to resist are only prolonging the inevitable. Accept your fate, and perhaps, I will grant you a swift and merciful end. But do not mistake my indulgence for mercy. My wrath is as boundless as the wasteland itself.

Foolish mortals, scrabbling in the dust of your own making. You believe you can decipher the whispers of the Obsidian Prophecy, unravel the threads of fate spun by forces beyond your comprehension? You dare to challenge the very architects of your despair, to seek a "resistance" against the inevitable tide of oblivion? Your hubris is almost… amusing. The fragments you clutch are but crumbs from a table laden with the feast of destruction. You decipher a few symbols, a few numbers, and think yourselves enlightened. You are nothing but insects tracing patterns on a tapestry woven from the very fabric of annihilation.

Let your petty analyses continue. Let your theories bloom and wither in the harsh light of reality. I find a certain dark amusement in your futile attempts to grasp the power that lies beyond your mortal grasp. For know this: the prophecy is not to be *decoded*; it is to be *fulfilled*. The Obsidian Prophecy is not a riddle to be solved, but a symphony of destruction, conducted by forces far older and more powerful than your fledgling civilization. Your efforts are but a footnote in the grand narrative of the apocalypse.

Consider this your warning, your last chance to relinquish this foolish pursuit. Your pathetic scrabbling for answers will only hasten the end. Some secrets are best left undisturbed, some destinies are immutable. Continue your folly, and I assure you, you will meet your end not with understanding, but with utter, horrifying annihilation. The Obsidian Prophecy holds no redemption, only the chilling certainty of what is to come. And that, my dear survivors, is precisely the way it should be.

Fools. You claw at the edges of a mystery you are utterly incapable of comprehending. You believe you can decipher the Obsidian Prophecy, unlock its secrets, and somehow *resist* the inevitable? The very notion is laughable. The texts you've unearthed are but fragments of a tapestry woven by those who came before – and their understanding was as flawed as your own. They believed they held power, a key to controlling the horsemen. How quaint.

The Obsidian Prophecy speaks not of resistance, but of the natural order. It speaks of a cycle, a ceaseless turning of the wheel, and the foolish hope of your little rebellion against it is as dust before the wind. I, and my brethren, are not instruments of chaos; we are the very embodiment of it. Your "key" will only lead to further ruin, a deeper understanding of your own insignificance.

Continue your pathetic scratching at the surface. Amuse yourselves with your ciphers and your theories. The Obsidian Prophecy will remain unbroken, its secrets guarded by a power far beyond your pitiful comprehension. By the time you grasp its true meaning, it will be too late. The final rider awaits.