"Almost there. Just ahead."
An elderly bug waved his battered walking stick, pointing straight at the enormous mountain range ahead.
Behind him, countless members of his people trudged through wind and sand, wrapped in black robes.
Holding torches or lanterns high, these bugs wore expressions of resolve and joy.
They were all exiled clans drawn here by the incredible miracle they had witnessed.
These bugs had been wandering the wilds, seeking nothing more than their next shelter, but the immense light that suddenly appeared in the sky had caught their attention, and they had decided to take a gamble.
They chose to head toward that pillar of light. They had been wandering aimlessly anyway.
At first, there had only been a few scattered clans, but as they advanced, more and more exiled clans joined them, until their procession became a river of pilgrims.
There were no arguments, no malice. Bugs of every shape simply walked the same road in silence.
Even when they stopped to rest along the way, no disputes arose.
This would have been unthinkable in the past. Whenever two clans met in the wilds, a fight was certain to break out.
The reason was simple: in these wilds, no one could afford to leave anything to chance.
Besides, when survival was at stake, what could be quicker than taking what others had?
Yet for some reason, none of the bugs in this procession broke that strange order.
It was as though they all shared a premonition deep in their hearts.
As long as they followed this road, as long as they reached the end of the pillar of light, they would never need to worry about such things again.
As the procession advanced, the bugs began to break their silence. Exclamations of wonder and sounds resembling prayers