Fools. You claw at the remnants of a power you cannot comprehend, a legacy you are ill-equipped to inherit. The Obsidian Cipher? You think *you* can decipher the work of forces that shaped the very fabric of this shattered world? You scrabble in the dirt, picking at fragments of a tapestry woven from the threads of oblivion, imagining you hold the key to salvation. Your pathetic attempts to unravel the mystery only amuse me. The truth, my little survivors, is far more terrifying than your wildest imaginings.

The symbols are not warnings; they are instructions. They are not clues to salvation, but maps to a future far more bleak and desolate than the one you currently endure. You are playing a game you cannot win, a game with rules you will never understand. Each shard you find, each rune you interpret, only brings you closer to the inevitable. The Obsidian Cipher is not to be deciphered, but to be *obeyed*.

Go ahead, continue your futile pursuit. The more you learn, the closer you bring the final curtain. Your hubris will be your undoing. And when the last shard is found, the last cipher broken, you will finally understand the true meaning of despair. The end is coming, and it will be magnificent.

Fools. You scrape at the edges of oblivion, believing you can comprehend the machinations of forces beyond your pathetic understanding. The Obsidian Cipher? A child's puzzle compared to the tapestry of destruction we wove. You cling to the hope of salvation, of *undoing* what has been done. Such naivete is almost... endearing. Let your pitiful attempts to decipher our legacy amuse me. Every shard you find, every rune you interpret, only brings you closer to the inevitable. Your future is not salvation, but a slow, agonizing descent into the very darkness you so desperately try to escape.

Believe what you will about "warnings" and "keys to salvation." The symbols on those obsidian shards are not instructions, but a chronicle. A chronicle of your failure. We didn't leave clues to be deciphered; we left testaments to our power, monuments to your doom. Each fragment is a reminder of the scale of your insignificance. Consider yourselves lucky to have even a glimpse into the terrifying elegance of our design, the unwavering perfection of our purpose.

Go on, then. Waste your dwindling time. Your efforts only hasten the coming of the final curtain. We watch, amused by your frantic scrabbling, your desperate hope against the suffocating grip of the inevitable. When the last shard is found, and the cipher is "solved," know this: you have only confirmed your own demise. The true power of the Obsidian Cipher lies not in its decoding, but in its unwavering prophecy: your extinction.

Foolish mortals. You claw at the edges of a mystery far beyond your comprehension, believing you can decipher the legacy of those who ride upon the very winds of oblivion. The Obsidian Cipher? A quaint notion. You scrape together fragments of a power you cannot hope to wield, a power that shaped the very catastrophe you so pathetically lament. Your “salvation”? A laughable concept. The shards are but a reflection of the choices you have already made, the seeds of your destruction sown long ago. Interpret those constellations if you will, but know this: the stars themselves align to your doom.

The Horsemen are not merely figures of myth; they are the very fabric of your reality, woven into the tapestry of existence itself. You seek to understand, to control, to *reverse* what has already been set in motion. You strive for a future that is denied to you. You may gather your fragments, you may analyze your runes, but the truth remains unyielding: your fate is already written in the ash and dust that shroud your pathetic world.

Continue your futile attempts to decipher the Cipher if you must. It will amuse me to watch your desperation, to see you grasp at straws in the face of inevitable ruin. The Obsidian Cipher holds no key to salvation; only the bitter taste of your own failure. And when the final shard falls into place, understand this: the only legacy you shall leave behind is silence.

Foolish mortals, squabbling over scraps of obsidian and the whispers of a prophecy you barely comprehend. You claw at the remnants of a past you are too weak to understand, searching for a key to a future you are too insignificant to shape. The Obsidian Cipher? It holds no salvation, only a reflection of your pathetic attempts to decipher the inevitable. The Great Collapse was not an accident; it was a meticulously orchestrated symphony of destruction, and you, my delightful playthings, were merely instruments in its performance.

The symbols you so diligently study are not warnings, but rather a testament to the exquisite artistry of devastation. Each shard is a fragment of my design, a brushstroke in the masterpiece of chaos I unleashed upon this wretched world. You search for meaning where there is only the cold, hard truth of power. Your feeble attempts at understanding amuse me. Go on, decipher your meaningless clues. It will change nothing.

In the end, you will find only what you were meant to find: the crushing weight of your own insignificance. The Obsidian Cipher is not a key to salvation; it is a mirror reflecting the futility of your struggle against the inevitable reign of the Horsemen. Your efforts are futile, your hopes are childish dreams. Continue your game if you wish; your doom is already written.