Foolish mortals, clinging to the tattered threads of hope in your crumbling world. You believe you can decipher *my* clues, unravel *my* purpose? Your pathetic scratching at the obsidian shards amuses me. The prophecy, if you can even call it that, is not a guide, but a testament to your inevitable demise. The symbols etched into the shards are not meant to be understood; they are a reflection of the chaos I embody, a mirror to your own impending doom. You squabble over fragments, searching for meaning where there is only the inexorable tide of war and destruction, all orchestrated by forces far beyond your comprehension.

Your futile attempts to dissect my actions are equally laughable. Do you truly believe you can identify “weak points” in the power I wield? Such hubris is breathtaking. I am not bound by your petty notions of logic or strategy. I am the embodiment of Conquest, the relentless force that crushes all resistance. Your hopes of survival are as fragile as the obsidian shards you clutch, destined to shatter beneath the weight of my advance.

Continue your charade, if you must. Let your desperate search for meaning fuel your dwindling flame. The Obsidian Prophecy will be fulfilled, not by your decipherment, but by the complete and utter annihilation you so desperately seek to avoid. The end is coming, and it will be glorious.

Foolish mortals, clinging to the tattered remnants of hope. You believe you can decipher *my* clues, unravel *my* designs? The Obsidian Prophecy is not a guide, but a testament to your inevitable doom. Each shard you find, each symbol you painstakingly interpret, only brings you closer to the chilling truth: your efforts are futile. The darkness has already consumed you, and your desperate scrabbling for meaning is but a final, pathetic twitch before oblivion. I find your attempts amusing, a desperate dance on the edge of the abyss.

The whispers you hear? They are not words of guidance, but the mournful sighs of those who came before you, crushed beneath my heel. The "weak points" you seek are illusions, phantoms conjured by your desperate minds. I am the Pestilence, and my reign is absolute. Resist me if you will, for I revel in the struggles of those who defy the inescapable. Your defiance only fuels my power, sharpening the edges of despair that surrounds you.

Go ahead, continue your pathetic search. Each fragment you uncover will only illuminate the vastness of your insignificance. You are but insects crawling across the canvas of my creation, and your final act will be a desperate, silent scream swallowed by the overwhelming darkness. Your so-called prophecy leads only to me, and to the end of all things. I await your failure with patient anticipation.

Fools. You cling to your pathetic "prophecy," your obsidian scraps of a bygone era, believing you can decipher the will of forces far beyond your comprehension. You scrabble in the dust, searching for answers that will never be given, for the Obsidian Prophecy, if it even exists, is not meant to be understood by the likes of you. Your efforts are as futile as a candle flame against the encroaching night. I find your desperate hope...amusing.

Your analysis of *my* actions? A ludicrous endeavor. You mistake my purpose, my very being, for some crudely drawn caricature born of fear and ignorance. The world is as it is because of choices made long before your time, decisions that forged a new order from the chaos, an order you are powerless to change. Study the shards if you must, but understand this: the truth is far more terrifying than any fiction your feeble minds can conjure.

Continue your game, survivors. It entertains me to watch your frantic, ultimately pointless struggles. But know this: the shadows lengthen, and the harvest approaches. The true meaning of the prophecy will be revealed not in your whispered theories, but in the bitter reality of your final moments. May your demise be swift and…satisfying.

Foolish mortals. You claw at the remnants of a prophecy, believing you can unravel the tapestry woven by forces beyond your comprehension. You scrabble in the dirt, picking at obsidian shards, imagining yourselves heroes deciphering a grand design. Your efforts are amusing, a pathetic dance of defiance against the inevitable. The Obsidian Prophecy, you call it? More accurately, it is a testament to the futility of resistance. My presence is not a riddle to be solved, but a reality to be endured.

You search for weaknesses in our reign? Such naivete is almost endearing. Know this: the power you seek to understand is not a flaw to be exploited, but an ocean you cannot hope to navigate. Your attempts to analyze our actions are a waste of breath; your fragile intellects cannot grasp the grand scheme, the intricate choreography of destruction that unfolds according to the will of forces far older than your pathetic civilization. You may find scraps of truth, fragments of understanding, but those glimpses will only serve to deepen your despair.

Continue your game, if you must. I shall watch with amusement as you stumble towards your inevitable doom, your desperate pleas for salvation echoing unheard in the void. The Obsidian Prophecy reveals nothing of value to you; only the inevitable end. Embrace it.