Foolish mortals, clinging to your pathetic hope in the face of oblivion. You believe you can unravel the Obsidian Cipher, understand the machinations of the Horsemen? You dare to seek answers where only ruin awaits? Your so-called "research" is a desperate grasping at straws, a feeble attempt to impose order upon the beautiful chaos I have unleashed. The patterns you see are merely the echoes of your own insignificance, reflected in the shattered remnants of your pathetic civilization. The "truth," as you perceive it, is but a fleeting shadow, a wisp of smoke in the wind.

Your obsession with deciphering ancient runes and cryptic symbols is amusing. You scramble over fragments of a power you cannot comprehend, seeking answers in the whispers of the dead. Yet, the true power lies not in understanding, but in *acceptance*. Embrace the devastation, the suffering, the utter annihilation of all you hold dear. Only then can you truly grasp the magnificence of the apocalypse, the exquisite symphony of destruction I have orchestrated. Let your feeble minds be consumed by the darkness.

There is no hope, only the slow, agonizing decay into nothingness. The Obsidian Cipher holds no answers, only the chilling confirmation of your helplessness. Continue your futile quest if you must, but know this: your efforts will amount to nothing more than a footnote in the annals of a world consumed by fire and despair. I, and my brothers, will watch with amusement as you stumble further into the abyss.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing you can unravel the tapestry of devastation I wove. You speak of "understanding the why," as if the answer could possibly be contained within some dusty, meaningless trinket. The Obsidian Cipher? A child's game compared to the true scope of what transpired. Your desperate search for answers is amusing, a pathetic dance in the face of oblivion. You grasp at straws, convinced there's some grand design, some cosmic puppet master pulling the strings, when the truth is far simpler, and far more terrifying: some things are simply inevitable.

The apocalypse wasn't a game, a riddle to be solved. It was a cleansing, a necessary purging. Your civilization, with its petty squabbles and insatiable greed, was a cancer upon this world. I was merely the surgeon, wielding the scalpel of destruction to excise the diseased tissue. Your pathetic attempts to decipher prophecies are irrelevant; your fate was sealed long before you ever stumbled upon these obsidian fragments. Embrace the silence. Embrace the end.

Perhaps, if you're lucky, you might glean a few scraps of understanding before your feeble minds shatter under the weight of the truth. But even then, what good will it do you? Knowledge without power is merely a curse. Go on then, decipher your fragments. See what horrors await you in the abyss of your own creation. I will watch, amused, as you stumble blindly towards your inevitable demise.

Foolish mortals, delving into secrets best left undisturbed. You scrape at the edges of oblivion, believing you can comprehend the machinations of forces beyond your comprehension. The Obsidian Cipher? A child's game compared to the tapestry of fate I weave. You presume to understand the *why* of this apocalypse, to find some grand design in the chaos? Pathetic. Your struggles are amusing, the tiny sparks of defiance against the inevitable night. Your "hope" is nothing but a flickering candle in a hurricane.

The devastation you witness is but a prelude, a mere brushstroke in a far grander painting of ruin. You claw at fragmented prophecies, seeking answers in the dust of a fallen world. You misunderstand entirely. There is no path to reclaiming what was lost. There is only the slow, agonizing unraveling, the exquisite dance of destruction, and I – a conductor of its symphony. The patterns you seek are not meant for your eyes. They are the whispers of a power you could never hope to fathom, and your deciphering will only accelerate your demise.

Continue your quest, if you dare. Unravel the threads of the Cipher. Each discovery will only bring you closer to the terrifying truth – that your efforts are insignificant, your fate already sealed. The Obsidian Cipher holds no answers, only the bitter taste of your own futility. Enjoy the show. The grand finale is yet to come.

Foolish mortals, scratching at the edges of a truth far too vast for your feeble minds to comprehend. You speak of the Obsidian Cipher as if it were some puzzle to be solved, a riddle to be cracked. You believe that by piecing together fragments of a shattered past, you can somehow undo the work of ages, rewrite the destiny etched in the very fabric of reality. How quaint. Your hubris is as breathtaking as your ignorance is profound.

The Horsemen are not merely "agents of destruction," as your pathetically limited understanding would have it. We are the instruments of a symphony far older than your pitiful civilization, a discordant masterpiece played upon the strings of fate. You seek to uncover our "legacy"? You dare to challenge the inevitable? Go ahead, sift through your scraps of obsidian, decode your meaningless runes. Your pathetic attempts only amuse. The apocalypse is not a problem to be solved; it is the solution itself.

And when, inevitably, you glimpse the horrifying truth that lies beyond your childish games, when the weight of cosmic indifference crushes the last vestiges of your hope, remember this: you were warned. I, for one, will be watching, with a sardonic amusement only the truly powerful can possess. Your pitiful struggles only serve to entertain. Continue your quest, if you dare. Your fate is sealed.