The events described here take place approximately three years before the prologue of Dark Neology – Dante's Gray Pages, of which David's Legacy is a spin-off.
It had been over three years since that old highway was last used for any practical purpose, the Old John was once regarded as the pride of a route where billions in merchandise flowed every month. Heavy cargo now traveled through underground routes, light packages arrived by drone, and people rarely left the hyper-urban conglomerates.
But on that sweltering summer morning, just as the first rays of sunlight pierced the trees, a slender young man walked alone down the road. His mud-caked boots dragged dry forest leaves in his wake, and his faded jeans were soaked up to the shins. Slung over his shoulder, an old backpack held nothing but a handful of dreams and on his face, the bright gaze of someone who, living far from the cities, had not yet been broken.
The young man, with his long twig legs, walked for hours along the endless stretch of asphalt—long enough to dry his jeans completely, but not enough to dim the vitality in his face. The trees had vanished from the roadside, giving way to a desolate black expanse where everything had burned; the remains of ruined farms still smoldered in the distance, which the wanderer avoided looking at.
At last, he emerged from the clinging fog, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, and ahead, he saw the skyscrapers looming—so tall they'd dwarf even the road itself, if it stood upright.
He shrugged and shifted the backpack strap higher over his protruding trapezius, its weight already carving into his skin.
— Who would've thought humans built this, —The thought echoed as he stared at the megacity rising on the horizon, unable to look away, fascination deepening with every step forward.
About ten minutes later, he came upon the "Cor Marshall" sign. His eyes squinted at the monument flashing on the screen—the griffin-bear holding WCA's flag, marching like a soldier. Below, a strip of fabric danced in the wind, faint blue letters glowing across its surface. In smaller print, hard to decipher, was the message:
"Welcome to the capital of the WCA, financial heart of the entire world and beyond."
After the initial ecstasy stirred by the technological aura of the monument before him, the young man shivered. A chill ran through him like an electric current, a sense of danger, sudden and primal welling up in his gut.
He scanned the surroundings: nothing. Just silence, emptiness, and a wide central road stretching into city. No cars passed by.
His mouth was parched. He swallowed hard, the dryness stinging. Kneeling in the shadow of a streetlamp, he dropped his backpack to the ground and began rummaging through it. Out came a worn, leather-bound Bible, a withered apple, a multi-tool knife, and finally—his prize—a metal canteen he grabbed with desperate hands. As sunlight hit the polished surface, the engraving became clear: "Grumpy Bear – 2031."
He shook it near his ear, then tilted it to his lips. Only a few yellowish drops fell. Disappointed, he shoved everything back inside, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slung the pack over his shoulder once more.
The sun hung bitter, a fire emperor in a boundless sky. The purple flannel clung to him, soaked and discarded with a flick of disdain. His throat was a desert, he briefly imagined wringing it like a rag for even a drop.
His rust-streaked pocket watch showed it was nearly 11:00. He swallowed his frustration and pushed down the thirst gnawing at him, forcing himself to keep going. A few steps ahead, as he passed beneath a flawless arch formed by two gleaming poles flanking the highway, a sharp beep brought him to a halt.
He'd crossed the exact border of the city. From within the poles, two long, mechanical arms extended—each tipped with a cluster of lenses and a central device that resembled a high-voltage stun gun, crackling with static and spitting sparks. The strange paraphernalia swung dangerously close to his face.
Startled, he threw up his hands; his face went pale, eyebrows nearly leaping off his forehead.
The precise mechanical arm circled the young man's head in smooth, calculated motions. Its electric hum stirred a coldness in his chest. A sensation that stole his breath, as effectively as a punch in the stomach. Static prickled his scalp, lifting his hair before easing it back into place. As the mechanical device pulled away, tension left his shoulders—until a mechanized voice spoke, snapping him back to alertness:
"David Newman Dievodvasia. ID: B821-300-971. Status: not registered in the WCA data matrix. Non-resident of Cor Marshall. Criminal record: clean. Biometric identity captured for identification purposes. Proceed as a visitor. Good day."
When the robotic arms retracted, David stood frozen for a few seconds, unsure if it was safe to move—then he exhaled, his arms falling as his shoulders eased from their rigid hold.
David steadied himself and stepped through the archway into the city, moving cautiously on tiptoe. Distrust still clung to him, clear in the grimace he gave the posts where the mechanical devices had withdrawn after their invasive inspection. He glanced back once more, just in case they decided to sprout legs and chase him down.
After leaving that situation behind, the heat and his insufferable companion, thirst—began to weigh him down again. Too dizzy to run, he pressed on along the sidewalk, scanning for any sign of another human who might offer help. He kept his eyes on the ground or straight ahead, deliberately avoiding the towering buildings that now made him feel nauseous and unsteady.
A few more minutes of wandering through the ghostly streets, David finally spotted a broad, tree-lined square. He let out a breath, hand to his chest. Only two figures occupied the space: an old woman and a small boy seated quietly on a bench.
Resolve stiffened his steps as he hurried over to her. He cleared his throat and called out,
— Uh… excuse me, ma'am, — his voice dry and strained.
The middle-aged woman ignored him. Bundled in a rough, flat-gray jumpsuit, she sat rigid, her sunken eyes fixed unblinkingly on the screen of a heavy smartphone, an oversized WCA insignia on its back shining. The boy beside her looked around ten years old, though his face carried an oddly adult expression. He held a transparent, inflated ball with colored LEDs flashing in a random pattern. As with the woman, the object held him completely.
David was startled by their robotic pallor but tried again,
— Ma'am, please… do you know where I can get some water?
David's expression flickered, and he rubbed his hands over his eyes several times. The silence wasn't just a lack of response — it was casting him in the role of a ghost.
It made him question whether these people were real, or if they had already chosen to shut him out without ever knowing who he was.
He raised his hands, considering a clap, but the impulse faded and they dropped back down. Adjusting the thin strap of his backpack to the center of his shoulder, he turned away from the two strangers. His eyes wandered across the square, hoping to spot someone else.
— Hmph. Even criminals aren't that cold, — he snorted inwardly, lips unmoving. — And they say politeness is a city thing.
A shiver ran through him as a massive shadow swept overhead, making him jump aside. He found himself face-to-face with a towering man—taller than even him—dressed in a standard military uniform and a green plastic helmet striped with yellow. Their eyes locked, and the man's stern expression froze the words in David's throat.
— You from the underworld? — the man asked, his voice even heavier than his presence.
David blinked several times, his face paling despite the scorching heat.
— Huh? Underworld? — He swallowed hard. — No, I'm David, from the rural town of Woodsburg. I've lived there my whole life… well, until I couldn't anymore.
The man narrowed his eyes, scanning David from head to toe. After a long breath, he said,
— Figures. "Underworld" is what we call the areas outside the cities. Lawless zones, abandoned by the government. Only criminals live out there.
David's expression shifted in an instant. His back straightened as if jolted by a surge of energy.
— I'm not a criminal, sir. I work for what I have. — he snapped, voice rising energetically.
Nothing on the man's face was clear except an intense, contemplative judgment. His silence was an invisible hand tightening around David's throat, compelling him to speak, to explain himself.
— I-I tried to live an honest life after everyone left. But it became impossible with those damned liberals raiding our harvests as soon as the corn cobs were ripe.
— Hm-hmm. — The man nodded, his expression shedding some of its rigid weight. — One of those gangs took some of my men years ago. I don't know whether they were barbaric Pisadians, liberals, or demons from hell… all we found at the Evtol crash site were mutilated bodies.
David's heart raced; he clenched his teeth as a crushing pressure gripped his skull, a blood-stained scene flashing through his mind—one he refused to remember.
— My family…
Their gazes broke as David's vacant eyes dropped, his tone slipping into a distant sigh.
— I just miss the old days… The only battle on the farm was with nature, but everything turned upside down in the space of a year… My stubbornness kept me there longer than anyone else could. But the place was beyond salvation.
My life and my freedom, that's all I own now.
The strange man shook his head, his expression blank as he said,
— "Freedom and willpower are all a man needs to face life and win" that's what my father used to say. A great fool. This city… this country as they are now, will take everything you have and spit out a lifeless corpse barely resembling a human.
David's smoldering energy cooled at the man's words. His gaze drifted back to the woman and child, motionless in the silence. He felt the pieces clicking into place, then turned back to the stranger, who was already moving away.
— Wait! — David called out. — what's your name?
The man stopped but didn't look back.
— Once, my name was Barton Arvitt—an honorable lieutenant who served his country. Now, I'm just a nobody, like so many others.
He resumed walking, his steps stiff and mechanical. David hurried to catch up, falling into step beside him.
— Could you help… uh, Barton? — he said. — Hours on foot. I'm dizzy with thirst. I need water.
Their heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed for a few more seconds. David, to his right, continued watching expectantly from the corner of his eye. Without a word, Arvitt raised his left arm, stopping the young man in place, his gaze following the gesture. At the far end of the square, in the shadow of a towering artificial tree, stood a row of four machines—each the size of a three-meter refrigerator, their polished metal surfaces gleaming like mirrors.
They both walked toward it. David was captivated by the architecture, craning his neck to take it all in. The artificial tree rose from a crystal-clear spring where fish swam. Its sloping black trunk was threaded with irregular, vein-like pipes that carried water to the top, where tiny bonsai-like trees grew at the ends of the branches.
Not used to it, the rural youth was ecstatic for a few moments until Arvitt's sharp, authoritative voice brought him back to reality.
— Here, country fool, — He said, pointing to the first machine, a compact canteen of sorts. He pressed a few buttons, and a bottle of ice-cold water dropped into David's hand. A clumsy smile broke across David's tired face as he caught the precious liquid, relief washing over him.
As the ice-cold water slid down his throat, quenching his thirst, the young man's eyes followed the former lieutenant as he moved to a opaque booth just behind the row of self-service machines. A robotic voice intoned:
— Please confirm your digital signature above, and keep your finger pressed on the biometric reader for final confirmation.
David lowered the half-empty bottle and craned his neck, hearing bearings sliding somewhere beyond the row of machines. He couldn't see what was happening, so he shuffled forward cautiously. His eyebrows rose as he finally glimpsed Barton inside the cabin, visible only through the small round window.
David edged closer, practically glued to the cabin. The lieutenant, once seemingly implacable, appeared serene, almost asleep—eyes tightly shut, no movement on his face.
He slammed his hand against the window—but it snapped shut with a clang of black metal. A hiss of high-pressure gas followed. He jerked back, feeling the sudden heat.
— Hot, — he thought, eyes widening as the machine's display lit up:
"Cremation in progress, keep away."
As the weight of it sank in, David instinctively stepped back—only to bump into something.
— Hey, giving up?
— Will it be long in there? — two men asked almost simultaneously, appearing behind him.
Both were tall and fit, their dark green uniforms eerily reminiscent of the lieutenant who had just met his end in that cabin. David shook his head and moved aside.
— Looks like the oven's occupied, hmph, — one of them said, pointing to the panel. Crossing his arms, he faced the other soldier. — What's with that look, Rich? Fear?
David's hand tightened around the bottle instinctively as he listened to the soldiers' conversation. Rich, the smaller of the two, tapped his foot impatiently, his gaze flicking between the ground and the cabin. After a few seconds, he spoke, his words clipped:
— It's not really fear, Hugh… I just..
Hugh tapped his index and middle knuckles against the machine's metal casing, the sound brief and muted by its immense density.
— There is nothing to fear, tin soldier, — he stated, his voice steady yet carrying unmistakable certainty. — The process is painless. Death follows the remedies, and fire erases all that's left.
— I'm not… Look, I still don't know if I want to do this, — Rich admitted, uncertainty thick in his voice. — My mother always said only God decides when we should leave this world… That stuck with me. Maybe one of the only lessons she ever taught me that stayed with me, before I was swept into the WCA's military service
Hugh shook his head,
— See that? — he said, gesturing toward the lady and child in the square. — Staying here is worse than dying, — He paused for a moment, an aggravated look drawing his brows down. — You may look alive on the outside, but inside, you've been dead for a long time… no dreams, no perspective, no future. Like a sick rat in a cage with only a portion of food, the bare minimum to remain somewhat alive.
Rich drew a deep breath, ready to respond, but a sudden whistle from the cremation booth made him swallow his words. All eyes turned toward it. The control interface glowed light green, and something slithered up from the top of the machine—roughly the size and shape of a motorcycle tire. The strange device expanded and began to float, rising slowly until it vanished from sight.
David stared at the sky, hand shading his eyes, a gleam of curiosity in his gaze.
— Yeah, the winged ashtray went straight east, — Hugh muttered. — I think it's headed for the sea. Understandable, I also want to end up there… but back to our final line.
He finished, his index finger stabbing like an arrow at the death machine, now seen by David as a gateway to hell.
— Oh, are you going first, or should I?
Rich grabbed his shirt but was brushed off with a dismissive wave. His fist clenched, a vein pulsing—then it slowly slackened. Their eyes locked, a message flashing between them in a single second. Hugh's gaze was vacant, stripped of all feeling, as he said:
— Look at you. Shaking like a green twig in a storm. Fine, I'll go then. No problem.
The soldier turned his back to him and tapped something onto the panel. Leaning in, his face aligned with the interface as a quick green light swept across his features. A beep followed. He straightened, and the machine barked an instruction to place his finger on the biometric reader. The hellish door groaned open, exposing its interior: ethereal, yet exuding the bitterness of ashes that once bore a name and a history.
David, frozen and still trying to process the weight of the last few minutes, felt his spirit waking up. Something deep inside him urged a single step forward, and his voice echoed like a thought spoken before it was fully formed.
— Stop. Don't…
The young man lunged for the closing door, fingertips brushed the metal, but Rich caught his forearm and held him back. As the heavy door sealed shut with a vacuum-like pull, the young man spun around, and the sight of Rich's tear-filled eyes hit him as a hammer: the weight of an entire funeral pressed into one expression.
— Why didn't you do anything!? Tell me. Isn't this guy your friend?
The soldier's lips were pressed shut, trembling faintly.
— This isn't something we can stop, — Rich said, and both of them lowering their gaze to the ground, unwilling to watch the scene unfold. — You'd only hurt yourself, whether against the cold pull of this machine, or the even fiercer will of that living instrument.
That wasn't a language familiar to a country heart. The young man clenched his fists until joints creaked, chest swelling with furious conviction.
— No! — he shouted, more forcefully than intended. — We always have options, giving up shouldn't be one of them… You only lose when you stop fighting!
Heavy eyes closed for a moment, then opened again. He didn't dare face David as he answered in a bitter voice:
— We live in days when, no matter what you choose, loss is expected. Fight or do nothing—death still finds you, only in a different form.
He gave David a cold once-over, his expression shifting and hardening before softening with sadness as his gaze fell to the floor.
— You don't look like someone who lived here. Your face… it has life and hope. We've just got nothing left to fight for. Uh, I never wanted any of this, but… that's the reality now.
— Ah-hm. Reality… it's just a painting created by people's choices. We can't give in to choices that abandon their families—the people they love—to what comes after.
Rich swayed as if struck, hunching further, his shoulders collapsing from their rigid, military stance.
— Not a painting. A metal sculpture. Some people made terrible choices in the past. We soldiers were among them—sent to war, killing innocents in the name of patriotism and security, only to return and be met with hatred.
All we had was the uniform. It became our world. And in the end, they discarded us like old, moldy paper.
We've reached a point of no return. No one has a choice anymore.
What do you think you'd find here? Opportunity? A new life? —The soldier exhaled, eyes clenched shut. — Listen… Get out while you still can.
The young man stared at the soldier, his eyes carrying the cold precision of a rifle, and answered in a measured, weighty voice:
— "Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up."
I heard you two talking, — he added. — There's still some faith in you. It's holding on.
Rich took a half-step back, unsettled by the young man's presence. Any words he might have spoken stuck in his throat, but his expression screamed, "Who the hell are you?"
David continued,
— You're right, I'm not from here. But do you think that makes me different? Do you think I don't understand? Family, friends, comfort… I've seen all of that taken from me, by force, just as you have.
The soldier drew a shaky breath, like someone surfacing from drowning, his voice barely audible:
— Underworld. So… you're from there. — he paused, straining to clear his voice. — I've heard nothing but terrible things… How do you keep going when there's no sense left? What do you anchor yourself to?
David sighed deeply and bent to pick up the bottle he'd dropped. Squinting through the half-full plastic, he studied the cabin as its silent decay unfolded. A spark ignited in his eyes. He quickly removed his backpack, and as he opened it to store the last of his water, his fingers brushed against the worn, leather-bound Bible.
He lifted it, tracing the pages until he found a specific passage, then held it up toward Rich.
— Here, read it with me — he said,
Psalm 23:4 – "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me."
The soldier's inner voice echoed alongside David's loud, commanding reading of the verse. Rich's eyes grew misty as memories of his childhood surfaced—a distant time when his eight-year-old self had accompanied his mother to church, a time of innocence and limitless dreams. A time when churches and faith had not yet vanished.
He remembered, in particular, his father's wake—a police officer who had died defending the innocent. The original flag of his country draped the coffin, while whispers of mourning filled the air and a distant voice intoned that he had been an honorable man.
That was enough. When his awareness returned to the present, rigid lines of defiance gradually carved themselves onto his face. Fear vanished from his gaze.
Hiss of steam from the death machine finishing its work, a winged ashtray hurtling toward the unknown, set the background soundscape as the soldier with resolute gaze grabbed David by the arm. Terrified, he struggled, but it was useless—his frail body stood no chance against a fully fit soldier.
They moved a few meters away, ignoring David's protests as they rounded the artificial tree. At a trash can, the soldier shoved the young man against it.
— What pigeon poop did you smell? — he asked, gripping Rich's wrist.
— Sheesh. Quiet, — the soldier whispered, releasing David's collar. He pressed his back to the metal trash can and began banging it rhythmically with his closed fist. The noise was grating, but he leaned close, speaking into David's ear. The hot, coffee-scented breath made him flinch.
— Listen. If you want to survive here, know this: the city is changing fast. Relentless laws, constant surveillance—eyes like multiplying cameras, law enforcement turned into terrifying machines. Don't question the system or the status quo openly. You're different; keep it hidden.
The knocking stopped. He shook his head at David, seeing a completely different person staring back.
— I hope to see you in the near future… as a comrade in faith and battle. Survive.
David was so startled by the soldier's sudden remark that he froze, unresponsive for a few seconds. Then his voice snapped back.
— Wai.. Wait! — he shouted, pulling something from his pocket. He looked down—a piece of paper, crumpled into a small ball, clenched in his fist. Unfolding it with sweaty hands, he checked if the writing was still legible. When he finally looked up, the man was gone. A quick glance around revealed only empty surroundings.
The young man's mind buzzed. In the few hours he had spent in the capital, it felt like a sea of strangeness unlike anything his rural life, difficult as it had been, had ever prepared him for.