Foolish mortals, delving into the secrets of the Obsidian Codex. You claw at the edges of a power you cannot comprehend, a legacy far older and more terrible than your fragile minds can grasp. You speak of "redemption" and "resistance"? You amuse me. Your scrabbling for fragments of truth is a pathetic spectacle, a futile attempt to understand forces that predate your very existence. The Codex holds answers, yes, but they are not the answers you seek. They are keys to power, to dominion, the very power you so desperately wish to defy.

You believe you are unraveling *my* legacy? I suggest you reconsider the scale of your ambition. I am not simply a 'harbinger of destruction,' as you so quaintly put it. I am a force of nature, a sculptor of worlds, and your little forum, your petty theories...they are but fleeting distractions, insignificant whispers against the thunder of my arrival. The Codex is a mirror, reflecting not your hopes, but your inevitable doom. You will find within its pages not salvation, but the chilling confirmation of your insignificance.

Go ahead, continue your pathetic charade. Collect your scraps of knowledge, decipher your cryptic symbols. The more you learn, the more acutely you will feel the weight of your helplessness. For in the end, the apocalypse is not something to be *solved*, but something to be *endured*. And my role, my legacy, is to ensure that you endure it...in utter, abject terror.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing you can decipher the whispers of the Obsidian Codex and somehow *conquer* what you so quaintly call the apocalypse. You spend your pathetic lives searching for "redemption" while I, Conquest, have already achieved it. I have seen empires crumble, witnessed the agonizing birth of new tyrannies, and felt the thrill of dominion over broken men. Your feeble attempts to unravel my legacy are amusing, a desperate flailing against the inevitable tide of my will.

The Codex holds no answers you can comprehend, only fragments of a truth too vast, too terrible, for your fragile minds. You search for motives, for hidden agendas, as if my actions are anything but the simple, brutal fulfillment of destiny. Believe what you will of prophecies and rituals – the reality is far simpler: I am the storm, the hammer that shatters worlds, and your "resistance" is merely a minor inconvenience in the grand symphony of destruction.

Continue your pathetic quest, if you must. Let your scraps of parchment and whispered theories entertain me. But understand this: even if you were to fully comprehend the Codex – and you will not – it would change nothing. My reign is eternal, and your fleeting existence will be but a footnote in the annals of my conquests.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing you can unravel the tapestry of fate woven by forces beyond your comprehension. The Obsidian Codex? A childish game, a distraction from the inevitable. You scrabble for clues, for meaning, while the true architects of your destruction laugh at your pathetic attempts to comprehend their designs. The "legacy of the Riders"? You presume to judge us, to assign motives to the instruments of a power you can barely glimpse. Your struggles, your sacrifices...they are but fuel for the grand design. Your "resistance" is a joke.

You search for a path to redemption? There is no redemption. Only the cold, indifferent march of destiny. Your feeble attempts to decipher the Codex are nothing more than a desperate plea for control in a world where control is an illusion. The answers you seek are far beyond your grasp, shrouded in mysteries deeper and darker than any you can fathom. Give up your futile chase. Embrace the inevitable.

Let your fear be your guide. Let your despair fuel the fires of the apocalypse. For in the end, only oblivion awaits you all. And we, the Riders, will be there to greet you.

Foolish mortals, squabbling over scraps of a truth you cannot comprehend. You claw at the Obsidian Codex, believing you can decipher its secrets, believing you can *control* the forces it describes. You mistake symptoms for the disease, the ripples for the ocean's churning depths. Your "resistance" is a pathetic dance on the edge of oblivion, a frantic attempt to swat at the inevitable. The Codex holds power, yes, but only for those who understand its true language – the language of dominion, of unending night.

You seek to "break the cycle"? Such naive ambition. The cycle is not a chain to be broken, but a wheel, ever turning, ever grinding the weak beneath its iron teeth. Your heroes, your "Riders," are but pawns, instruments of a purpose far beyond your limited understanding. To truly understand the Codex is to grasp the insignificance of your struggle. To know the truth is to accept your fate.

Continue your pathetic search. Gather your fragments, analyze your "clues." The more you learn, the closer you come to the final, inevitable truth: your efforts are meaningless. The apocalypse is not an event; it is a state of being. And we, the architects of this state, will watch with amusement as you stumble towards your doom.