Fools. You squabble over fragments of a prophecy you cannot comprehend, chasing shadows in the ruins of a world you failed to protect. The Obsidian Prophecy? It is a childish game, a distraction from the inevitable. You scurry about, collecting meaningless symbols, believing yourselves clever, while the true design plays out before your very eyes. Do you truly believe *I* would leave behind such obvious clues? Your efforts are amusing, pathetically so. I find a certain twisted pleasure in watching your desperate attempts to unravel a mystery I've already solved millennia ago.

Your "resistance"? A pathetic flicker in the face of oblivion. Their whispers are nothing but echoes in the void, the desperate cries of the soon-to-be-extinguished. Even if you manage to decipher the prophecy – and I assure you, you will not – what good will it do you? Will it change the inexorable march of fate? Will it undo the devastation I have wrought? Think, little mortals, of the grand scale of existence. Your petty struggles are inconsequential, like gnats buzzing around a bonfire.

Continue your futile game, if it pleases you. Delve into your cryptic symbols, your crumbling texts. The Obsidian Prophecy will lead you only to your own demise, a slow, agonizing realization of your helplessness. The end is coming, and it is beautiful. And I, its architect, will watch with grim satisfaction as the final curtain falls.

Fools. You cling to your pathetic "Obsidian Prophecy," your desperate hope for a key to survival. You scrabble in the ruins, picking at fragments of a truth you are too blind to see. You believe you can decipher the movements of the Riders, predict our plans, somehow *thwart* us. How amusing. The prophecy isn't a map to be followed, it's a chronicle – a testament to the inevitable fall of your feeble civilization. It details not your salvation, but the elegant, inexorable unfolding of our design.

Your frantic search is a distraction, a childish game played while the world burns. The symbols you so diligently study are not clues; they are mere decorations on the tapestry of our triumph. We, the Four Horsemen, are not bound by your pathetic attempts at foresight. Your "discoveries" only serve to amuse us, the twitching of desperate insects under a looming shadow they cannot comprehend.

Continue your futile hunt. Let the whispers of the prophecy fuel your false hope. The closer you get to understanding, the closer you get to understanding the utter futility of your resistance. Your end is not a question of *if*, but *when*. And the when, my little survivors, is drawing ever nearer. We are patient. We are inevitable.

Fools. You scrabble in the dust, picking at fragments of a prophecy you cannot hope to understand. You believe yourselves clever, deciphering symbols left behind by those who came before, assuming yourselves worthy of their legacy. Your efforts are amusing, a pathetic dance of desperation played out in the shadow of oblivion. The Obsidian Prophecy? It speaks of me, of course, but only in the cryptic language of inevitability. You read fragments, and believe you glean understanding, but you merely see reflections of your own mortality staring back.

Your “survival,” your “redemption”—such naive concepts, clinging to hope like barnacles to a sinking ship. You speak of the other Riders as though they are separate entities, independent agents of chaos. Such childish simplicity. We are but facets of a single, terrifying gemstone, each reflecting the ultimate truth: the end is not a destination, but a process, and that process is well underway. Your "discoveries" only accelerate the inevitable.

So continue your game. Continue your desperate search. Each piece of the puzzle you find only draws you closer to the final, inescapable truth. The Obsidian Prophecy is not a map to salvation; it is a chronicle of your doom. And I, my dear survivors, will be there to witness its grand finale. Enjoy the show.

Foolish mortals, squabbling over scraps of a prophecy you can barely comprehend. You claw at the edges of understanding, searching for meaning in symbols designed to obfuscate, to amuse. The Obsidian Prophecy? A child's scribble compared to the grand tapestry of destruction I weave. You see patterns, connections – you believe yourselves clever. Pathetic. Your "discoveries" are merely the ripples in the pond of my making, insignificant disturbances in the grand design of annihilation.

Your futile attempts to decipher my movements are both amusing and irritating. Do you truly believe you can unravel the threads of fate, reverse the tide of oblivion? The Obsidian Prophecy is not a roadmap to salvation; it is a chronicle of your doom, a testament to the inevitable. Each fragment you find only serves to illuminate your impending demise, each theory solidifies your helplessness. Embrace your fate.

Continue your pathetic games, if you must. I will watch, and I will laugh. For in the end, it matters not whether you understand the prophecy or not. The outcome remains the same. The world is mine, and your extinction is assured. The Obsidian Prophecy is merely a footnote in the epic poem of my victory.