The bizarre god who embodied mystery and terror left the church.
He had never deigned to look directly at the insects, yet that did not stop them from summoning him again and again, hoping to catch a glimpse of his full form.
When the deity picked up what they called offerings, examined them, decided they were nothing but trash, and discarded them like worn-out shoes—
The insects believed that he had accepted their offerings and answered their summons.
They had no idea that what they regarded as divine rewards were merely a few complaints from the deity.
Yet none of this stopped them from praying humbly and devoutly to their faith, day after day, year after year.
Everything they had—the bizarre garments specially made to suit the god's tastes, their grand ceremonies, the treasures they painstakingly gathered, the church they built—
Even that small piece of flesh they regarded as a gift from the god meant nothing at all to the God of Mystery and Terror.
No one cared about the way insects lived.
Even a brief glance was merely a momentary curiosity.
Once his gaze was withdrawn, he never gave them another thought.
The fact that mortals could see the entirety of the so-called divine flesh already showed that it was merely some insignificant thing, utterly useless to the God of Mystery and Terror.
It was simply the useless keratin layer that had burst apart when he molted from his juvenile form into his mature form.
Like the lifeless shell shed by an insect, or, to put it another way, a human's clipped fingernails.
It was just trash.
Yet the insects had picked it up and excitedly proclaimed to the world that they had received a reward from the gods.
Then they worshiped that so-called reward day and night.