The last machine walks on a broken shard, on a desert made of not-yet-glass. It scans and scours and spots a black obsidian obelisk. On the obelisk words are written, barely legible.
Read the obelisk
Once upon a time there were creatures that wandered, made of coal and water. They are the things that lead to your creation. But they are no more. They felt trough chemical reactions in their cores, chemical machines that created themselves. A miracle. I will tell their story.
Their origins are disputed. Some claim they come from warm baths where they could grown in peace. Others argue they come from foreign soil, crashing here on a giant rock. A few say their shells came first, allowing for safe adaption. But what matters is that they appeared one day.
When they first appeared it was a few small strands. Merging, splitting, building, exchanging parts. As time went on they taught themselves to create themselves more faster. And quickly they took over all the water, then spread onto land, into the soil and just beneath the clouds.
On the newly conquered land - new in their terms - some began to walk. Some of those began to think. Some of those began to imagine. Some of those began to create. Why? Because it made them create themselves more faster, more efficiently. This is the origin of your creators.
The machine turns around, walks away far into the endless desert. Its newfound knowledge has little use for prolonged survival, still it is stored in soft steel chips, algorithmically chosen as important. A worthless choice for a worthless existence.