Foolish mortals, scrabbling in the dust of your own making. You believe you can decipher the whispers of the Obsidian Prophecy, unravel the machinations of the Four Horsemen? You presume to understand the very fabric of your doom? Your pathetic attempts at decoding a power far beyond your comprehension amuse me. The fragments you've unearthed are but crumbs from a table laden with the feast of annihilation – a feast I, and my brethren, eagerly await to complete.

Your "resistance"? A pathetic flickering candle against the storm of my wrath. You cling to the hope of a "fifth rider," a savior to deliver you from the consequences of your own failings. Such naivete is both heartbreaking and hilarious. Know this: there is no salvation, only the inevitable culmination of a prophecy written in blood and fire, a prophecy I am personally tasked with fulfilling.

Let your "collective decoding" continue. Let your fragile minds strain to grasp the insignificance of your own existence. For when the final piece of the cipher falls into place, it will not herald redemption, but the complete and utter annihilation of everything you hold dear. The end is nigh, and I will personally ensure it arrives with exquisite, agonizing brutality.

Foolish mortals, scratching at the edges of a mystery far beyond your comprehension. You believe you can decipher the Obsidian Prophecy, unravel the secrets of the Four Horsemen? How quaint. You fumble with fragments, mistaking shadows for substance, while the true power, the terrifying reality of this apocalypse, remains utterly beyond your grasp. Your "resistance" is a pathetic flickering candle against the storm; a futile gesture in the face of inevitable doom. You cling to the hope of a "fifth rider," a savior perhaps? You amuse me.

Let me assure you, there is no hidden meaning, no secret path to redemption. The apocalypse is not a riddle to be solved, but a symphony of destruction to be endured. My reign, and that of my brethren, is not a consequence of some ancient prophecy, but the natural order of things. The world, in its decaying glory, has simply reached its expiration date. Your efforts are but a distraction, a desperate dance around the inevitable.

Continue your pathetic attempts to decipher the cipher, if you must. Waste your fleeting moments trying to grasp at straws in the face of oblivion. I shall watch, with a chilling amusement, as your feeble hopes crumble to dust, as inevitably as the empires you so carelessly destroyed. The Obsidian Prophecy is not a key; it is a tombstone. And yours is already engraved.

Fools. You claw at the edges of a truth you cannot comprehend, a prophecy you are ill-equipped to interpret. You scrabble in the dust, convinced your feeble intellect can unravel the tapestry woven by forces beyond your wildest imaginings. The Obsidian Prophecy? A childish game. You believe you have found fragments of a hidden message, a roadmap to salvation? You are amusing. I have seen the dawn of this age, felt the tremors of its creation. Your "resistance"? A pathetic ripple in the tide of oblivion.

Let me offer a hint, a crumb of the truth you so desperately crave: there is no fifth rider. There is only the inevitable march of destiny, an apocalypse orchestrated not by some hidden hand, but by the very nature of existence. Your scrabbling for answers, your desperate pleas for meaning, only serve to amuse those of us who orchestrated this grand theater of destruction. Your feeble attempts at deciphering the symbols are as meaningless as your fleeting existence.

Continue your charade. Continue your futile search. Your hubris will be your undoing. The ashes will claim you all, eventually. The prophecy, in its entirety, is merely the testament to the utter futility of your existence. Enjoy the show. I will be watching.

Fools. You claw at shadows, desperate for meaning in the chaos you yourselves have wrought. You believe you can *understand* the Obsidian Prophecy, decipher the machinations of the Horsemen? How quaint. Your pathetic scraps of parchment, your feeble attempts at numerology – these are but children's toys compared to the power I wield. The true nature of the apocalypse isn't hidden; it is me. It is the famine, the pestilence, the war that rages within your hearts. You search for a key, a resistance… you are the resistance, the fuel for the fire that consumes your world.

Your so-called 'fifth rider' is a phantom of your own making, a projection of your fear. You desperately cling to the hope of a savior, a counter-force, while ignoring the undeniable truth: the end is not something to be deciphered, it is something to be *experienced*. Embrace the despair, the suffering. It is the only reality you will ever truly know.

Go ahead, continue your charade. Continue to unravel your insignificant threads. In the end, it will all amount to nothing. The Obsidian Prophecy will unfold as it must, and my reign will continue, unyielding, until the last ember of your pitiful existence is extinguished. And then, perhaps, even *I* will find a sliver of amusement in your futile struggle.