It did not happen all at once.
It might have been kinder that way. If all four horsemen of the End had swooped down from the sky on their mighty beasts and struck humanity down in one confused instant, that might have even been called merciful. But that was not what happened.
Pestilence came first. He rode wreathed in unclean fire and laid plague on the land, thick enough to choke on. It was not a quick death. Above all, he sparked the fear that would eat at civilization like an infection.
Then came War, on a thundering, frothing stallion. His way was violence, the madness of battle and blood. He ignited howling fury in his wake—against him, against humanity, against the cruel world.
Famine arrived quiet in the night. In a world already crumbling, crops withered and water became poison. The hollowness of want made monsters.
The End awaited only one more rider.