Chronikles of the Keepers. Voice of the primordial darkness

He extended his hand.

— So, what were you doing there?

Loyd pulled the crumpled flyer from his pocket and handed it to Isaac. He scanned the text, pausing at the figure.

— Hm. The corpse we found belonged to a gang member. Clever move, — he muttered. — There’s a quiet but very active war going on between two syndicates. Using random people for transport is elegant. No one suspects them. And if something goes wrong, another poor soul disappears — one no one would have looked for anyway.

He set the paper aside and fixed his gaze on Loyd.

— So? Are you in?

Loyd blinked.

— You’re… offering me a job? — he asked, bewildered. — Here? I mean, I’m grateful, but I’m just an ordinary person. I have no gift. I’ll just be a burden.

— Not all espers are born fighters, — Isaac said calmly. — And not all fighters know how to handle a weapon from the start. We need hands. And you move well. If you join, I’ll train you properly. And the pay, — he added with a slight wink, — won’t disappoint.

Something stirred in Loyd’s chest — the feeling that appears when a door, or rather a path, opens for the first time. Everything related to the Namekon, to Sumrak, to his past and the things he didn’t understand, suddenly had direction.

— Yes, — he said firmly.

Isaac grunted, rose from his dark red leather chair, his coat rustling softly.

— Good. Be here tomorrow at eleven. We’ll start then. You can go now.

Loyd turned to leave, but Isaac called him back. His voice wasn’t loud, but it still made him stop.

— One more thing.

He turned.

Isaac narrowed his eyes.

— The Namekon. Where did you get it?

Hearing the name spoken aloud hit Loyd like a cold blade. Panic washed over him.

“Stop shaking. The more you hesitate, the worse it gets. Tell him it’s a journal, like you told that girl,” Sumrak hissed.

“What if he sees through it?” Loyd shot back mentally.

“Then come up with something else.”

Isaac was watching him with cold, piercing interest — like a man looking not at words, but at what lay behind them.

— The… book? — Loyd finally managed. — I found it in the attic. It belonged to my ancestor. It’s been passed down through the family.

“There. You told the truth without giving anything away. Genius,” Sumrak chirped.

Isaac nodded slowly. His long fingers tapped the edge of the desk.

— Interesting. Namekons rarely pass by inheritance. They usually choose their own bearer.

He rose and walked to the window, standing against the grimy cityscape. From behind, he looked almost part of that gray panorama — elongated, sharp, and not quite human.

— Your ancestor… what was he? A hunter? A mage? Or just a curious fool?

“He’s right,” Sumrak noted. “I chose you because I deemed you worthy. But his deductive skills are remarkable… He’s sharp, Loyd. We need to be careful with him.”

— I don’t know, — Loyd admitted honestly. His voice sounded hoarse. — I have no one left except my older sister. And she’s only a year older than me.

At that moment, the office door opened, and a man entered whose appearance immediately signaled privilege, power, and precision. The air seemed to cool. He had a sharp, aristocratic face, pale lavender hair, and eyes with irises red as glowing embers. Pointed ears hinted at something beyond human. His long white frock coat fit perfectly, revealing a light vest and an impeccably buttoned shirt, with a gold watch chain dangling from his pocket.

— Enough pestering the boy, Isaac. You’ve already scared him enough with your interrogation, — he said in a smooth, polished voice.

Isaac smirked but said nothing.

— My name is Kyle Costerio, — he continued, turning to Loyd. — But you can call me Kyle. I’m the deputy head. You’ve already met Isaac. He’s a Warden-Hunter.

Kyle’s red eyes swept over Loyd, weighing him not as a person, but as a prospect.

— The girl at reception is Mila. Strict, diligent, and at times more sensitive than she’d like to admit. She also writes novels, so be careful — you might end up as a character in one of them. She’s our accountant.

Isaac chuckled dryly.

— Scared him? He survived a ghoul, Kyle. That makes him more than a child. And my question was just a test to see which way the wind blows.

Kyle stepped forward.

— The wind can be deceptive, Isaac. Especially when it comes from the past.

He gave Loyd a slight nod.

— Glad to see a new face. But remember: the truth here is rarely simple. Sometimes it starts hunting you before you even know it.

A faint metallic click sounded. Kyle pulled out his watch, glanced at it, and put it away just as quickly.

— Mila’s waiting for you in the dining hall to complete your paperwork. Don’t be late.

Isaac, still watching Loyd, added with a hint of a smirk:

— And if you hear strange noises from the third-floor lab at night, don’t go checking. Especially if it sounds like crying or tapping on glass.

“Ooh… I like your new boss,” Sumrak purred admiringly. “Strict. Threatens even as a joke. He’s got style.”

“Do you even understand the situation?” Loyd shot back. “They know something.”

Leaving the office under the crossfire of Isaac and Kyle’s gazes, Loyd felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted. But it wasn’t relief — it was the awareness that the danger hadn’t disappeared; it had simply taken on a face.

Mila was waiting for him in the reception area, a perfectly aligned stack of documents in her hands.

— Here are your forms, — she said. — Please fill them out and sign here, here, and here.

Loyd signed where needed and received his card. The cool plastic felt pleasant in his hand. The dim silver emblem caught the gaslight as he ran his finger over the embossed title: “Trainee.” A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread in his chest — not pride, but anticipation.

He tucked the ID into his inner pocket, close to his heart, and was heading for the exit when he nearly collided on the stairs with a stocky man bending under the weight of two boxes that rattled suspiciously.

— Hey, give me a hand? — came a slightly breathless but good-natured voice from behind the crates.

— Sure, — Loyd replied, grabbing one.

It was heavier than expected. It smelled of dust, sulfur, and something bitter and herbal.

— What’s in them? — he grunted, following the man upstairs.

— Reagents for my new research, — came the lively reply. — Without them, I’m useless.

They reached the third floor and entered a spacious room that looked more like a mad scientist’s lair than a lab. Shelves were packed with flasks of all shapes and sizes. Some liquids shimmered, others pulsed as though alive. The air was thick with the scent of metal, dried herbs, ozone, and something else Loyd couldn’t name even if given all day.

Setting the box on a free corner of the table, he finally got a good look at his companion. He was short, about thirty, with silver hair and a darker emerald fringe covering one eye. The other eye was dark green and sharp. He wore a leather vest with dozens of pockets, a belt of flasks and tools, and gloves up to his elbows. A fabric mask covered his lower face, and protective goggles were pushed up on his forehead.

— Thanks for the help, — he said, shaking Loyd’s hand firmly. His palm was covered in fine scars and chemical burns. — I’m Sakrus. Master alchemist and enchanter.

— Loyd. New recruit.

— Nice to meet you. If you have any questions about my field, or if you pick up some paranormal gunk during a hunt, come find me. I’m almost always here.

“Loyd! He looks terrifying. But also cool! This is your chance! Ask about the symbols!” Sumrak urged.

Loyd quickly found a scrap of paper and sketched one of the Namekon’s symbols from memory.

— Sakrus, do you know what this might mean?

The alchemist took the paper, his visible eye narrowing. He traced the outline with his finger, then pulled down his goggles. The lenses clicked softly, glowing pale blue.

— Unclear… but interesting, — he murmured. — I feel like I’ve seen something like this before. Maybe in some theurgic texts… I’m not sure. Can I keep this? I’ll dig through the archives.

— Of course, — Loyd agreed.

He said goodbye and left, leaving Sakrus hunched over the scrap, already half lost in thought.

At home, he was met with silence, the smell of hot dinner, and his sister, who immediately began making grand plans as soon as she heard he’d landed a job as an investigator’s assistant. Loyd wisely omitted the ghoul, the Namekon, the agency, and the likelihood of dying on the job within a week. Julia beamed with pride, already talking about how his career would help them escape the industrial district.

Later, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, Loyd replayed Isaac’s words. His mocking gaze, his questions snapping shut like a trap, his casual recognition of the Namekon. Was such a man worth trusting? Perhaps not. But there was no other path to unraveling his past and the future awaiting him.

Morning came unusually. Not with a groan, not with the urge to stay in bed, but with Loyd waking early and rising without resistance. He had already washed and dressed when he found a sleepy Julia in the kitchen, just about to wake him.

— Well, well, — she said, surprised. — Work’s doing you good. Normally, I’d need an explosion to get you out of bed.

“Loyd, just one sip of coffee? We have time, right?” Sumrak crooned.

— Yes, plenty of time, — Loyd answered cheerfully, reaching for the coffee pot.

— Plenty? — Julia raised an eyebrow.

Loyd immediately realized he’d responded aloud to the wrong speaker.

— I mean… I don’t have to be at work until eleven, and it’s only seven, — he covered quickly. — That’s all.

— I see… — Julia said in a tone that meant: I don’t see, but fine.

“Phew. Almost blew it with the excitement,” Sumrak muttered. “Oh! Coffee! Coffee!”

Loyd rolled his eyes mentally but poured himself a cup anyway.

After breakfast, he headed to the agency. Mila was waiting for him in the reception area, as crisp as ever. Without a word, she led him to a room that resembled a tailor’s atelier more than an armory. Rolls of fabric, mannequins, belts, holsters, patterns, and weapon parts filled the space.

— The main rule of the agency, — Kyle began, taking Loyd’s measurements with surgical precision, — is that we work in the shadows. We eliminate paranormal threats without leaving a trace and avoid the attention of the police and the public.

He jotted notes quickly.

— Your uniform will be ready in a few hours.

Kyle asked about colors, style, and preferences. Loyd, slightly flustered, requested something gray-brown, practical, not flashy, with straps. When it came to weapons, he just shrugged.

— A standard Warden’s pistol, then, — Kyle concluded. — Effective, reliable, and doesn’t require years of training.

Next, they headed to the Wardens’ office. Isaac was behind the heavy oak desk, studying an old map. He glanced up, gave Loyd a brief once-over, and got straight to business.

— There’s plenty of work, — he said. — So we’ll start immediately.

Before Loyd could gather his thoughts, Isaac was already moving toward the exit.

— Follow me.

They descended a spiral iron staircase into a basement. The air was cool, smelling of stone dust, sweat, and metal. Isaac pushed open a heavy door, and Loyd paused at the threshold of the training hall. A vaulted ceiling rose into semi-darkness. Along the walls stood dummies, punching bags, racks of training weapons, and an obstacle course in the back.

— As promised, — Isaac said, shrugging off his coat, — I’ll teach you technique. Show me what you’ve got.

He stood in the center, relaxed yet utterly unassailable. Loyd stepped forward.

“Focus. Listen to me and follow. Don’t tense up,” Sumrak whispered.

Loyd lunged. His movements were sharp, occasionally surprisingly precise, but often raw, uneven, driven by instinct. He saw Isaac deliberately leaving openings but couldn’t exploit them. The fight ended quickly. A few feints, a lightning-fast grapple — and Loyd was on the floor again, staring at the ceiling.

Isaac stood over him, not even winded.

— You’ve got talent, — he said calmly. — And some strange, almost wild skills. But your movements are awkward, you lack experience, and your body hasn’t yet learned to think for itself.

The next two hours were a test of endurance. Isaac was relentless but brilliant. He didn’t explain things twice, didn’t spare feelings, didn’t praise small victories. He simply trained the body, forcing it to learn through pain, fatigue, and repetition. Every mistake was dissected on the spot; his criticism was sharp as a blade and almost always on point.

When the session ended, Loyd was drenched in sweat, exhausted, barely standing. Isaac, in contrast, looked as composed as ever.

— Two hours a day, every day, — he said. — It won’t get easier. Just more familiar.

Loyd only nodded.

— Your gear should be ready by now. Go pick it up, — Isaac said over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall.

Loyd headed to the armory, where his new uniform waited on a mannequin. The fabric was tough, gray-brown, fitted perfectly, and allowed full freedom of movement. Straps, pouches, buckles — every detail was carefully considered. Nearby lay a standard Warden’s pistol, sleek, heavy, and menacing.

He changed and faced the mirror.

The reflection staring back was no longer the boy who had wandered the industrial district hunting for work. He wasn’t a fighter yet. But he no longer looked like someone who had stumbled into the wrong place.

“Wow…” he thought.

“Completely different,” Sumrak agreed. “Sharp. Dangerous. I like it.”

When Loyd re-entered the Wardens’ office, the air was thick with leather and wax. Isaac was reading a heavy tome called The Saga of the Ebony Pact. He finished the page, inserted a silk bookmark, and closed the book.

— You know, — he began, — people for whom honor is a purpose, not a convenient word, tend to exceed their own limits. For the team. For the commander. For what they believe in. And those for whom honor is just empty sounds drag everyone down.

He leaned back and fixed Loyd with a heavy stare.

— What drives you, Loyd? What’s your engine?

From the shadows by the shelves, Kyle stepped forward.

— You’re too harsh with people, Isaac. Words sometimes wound deeper than claws, you know.

Isaac paused, then nodded.

— Perhaps. But I know people. And I see a core in him.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes boring into Loyd’s.

— And I will be watching you very closely. Are you ready for that?

Loyd felt his pulse quicken under that gaze but nodded anyway.

Just then, the door burst open and Riya rushed in, agitated and breathless.

— Urgent call! A body found! Organs missing, but the chest was surgically opened!

In an instant, Isaac transformed. All his casualness vanished, replaced by cold efficiency. He rose sharply.

— Where?

— Western district. Arkhanum’s slums. A homeless man, found in a garbage container. The smell’s so bad you can’t get close.

— Meaning his “friends” are already there, — Isaac said grimly, referring to the insects. — Understood. We’re moving out.

He turned to Loyd.

— Get ready. Your first mission. And bring bags — just in case.

— For… evidence? — Loyd asked uncertainly.

— No, — Isaac replied with familiar sarcasm, already draping his coat over his shoulders. — For your weak stomach. I don’t want you to contaminate the crime scene before we’ve examined it.

Chapter 4. The Trail of Death

The carriage jolted over potholes, racing through the increasingly grim and neglected districts of Arkhanum. The farther they traveled from the more respectable streets, the more the city shed its mask. Stone facades grew lower and dirtier, windows narrower and darker, alleys tighter. Here, soot didn’t just lie on the walls — it seemed to have seeped into the brick itself. The rare lamps burned dimly, with a sickly yellow glow, and even through the carriage glass, it felt as though the outside air tasted of rust, coal dust, and something rotten.

Loyd sat across from Isaac, feeling the tension inside him mount with every passing minute. He tried to breathe evenly, but his chest still tightened, as if packed with wet cotton. Isaac watched him in silence for a while, then, without changing his posture, broke the heavy silence:

— Steady your breathing. They usually don’t appear at crime scenes twice. More likely, we’re looking at routine evidence collection.

His voice was calm, almost lazy, but beneath it lay a steel thread.

— Don’t relax, though, — he added. — We never know for sure. Their logic is… different.

Loyd swallowed.

— Who… are “they”?

Isaac frowned. His gaze grew distant, as if momentarily falling into far older memories than today’s events.

— The Death Physicians, — he said. — Or, as they pompously call themselves, “Project Immortality.” They’re doctors obsessed with eternal life. They hunt people and take the freshest… and most unique organs to transplant into themselves.

Loyd felt his insides twist.

— But… how? — he forced out. — Why? And how is that even possible?

— Their medicine is far beyond ours. Much farther, — Isaac replied. — Organs aren’t eternal, Loyd. They age. Wear out. Fail. And the Physicians are forced to constantly replace them, like parts in a machine. Only this machine is the human body. And it breaks down far faster than they’d like.

He paused for a few seconds, staring out the window at the hunched houses, narrow yards, and faces that had long since lost anything but exhaustion.

— Rumor has it there’s more than one or two, — he continued. — That they have a structure. A hierarchy. Hunters who find the raw material. Surgeons who process it. And someone at the top who controls it all. Someone for whom another’s body is just a catalog of spare parts. A Collector.

“Collector…” Sumrak echoed quietly in Loyd’s head. His voice was unusually thoughtful, not mocking. “An old word. Very old. And it doesn’t smell of blood — it smells of dust, formalin, and locked rooms.”

— They’ve lived among us for a very long time, — Isaac said. — Possibly for centuries. And now, with more people, hunting has become a trade for them. Almost a craft.

Loyd shook his head, unable to fully absorb what he was hearing.

— And no one’s ever seen them? No one knows?

Isaac let out a short, humorless laugh.

— Witnesses exist. Sometimes. But they’re either terrified senseless or remember nothing at all. Total amnesia. Convenient, isn’t it?

The carriage lurched harder than usual, then the driver’s voice called out from outside:

— We’re here!

The vehicle screeched to a halt.

The moment they opened the door, the stench hit them.

Not just the strong smell of decay, but something thick, sticky, sickly-sweet and rotten — enough to make Loyd’s stomach clench. Isaac, as if anticipating this, silently handed him a handkerchief soaked in the sharp scent of camphor and mint.

Loyd pressed it to his face and only then managed to take a breath without feeling like he’d collapse right into the mud.

They entered the alley. Garbage lay in heaps, the walls were damp with old moisture, and the darkness between them seemed thick even in daylight. Flies swarmed around the container where the smell originated. There were so many they looked like a living black shroud.

Covering their faces, they approached.

Three bodies lay inside.

Even through the horror and nausea, Loyd immediately noticed something wrong. Not just cruelty — a difference. A handwriting. Several different hands working in the same nightmare.

The first was a middle-aged man. His chest had been opened with terrifying precision. The incision was straight, as if made not with a hurried knife but with a surgical instrument. The edges were almost geometrically perfect.

The second was a young woman. Her face bore not an expression of terror, but a kind of empty, almost mesmerized stillness, as if in her last moment she wasn’t looking at her killer, but at something no one else would ever see. Shreds of sheet music lay scattered around her, mixed with mud and blood.

The third body was the largest. An older man, with the heavy hands of a fighter. But his chest hadn’t been opened — it had been torn apart. Ribs protruded, bones broken roughly, flesh shredded. It looked more like the work of a beast than a surgeon.

Isaac stared at them in silence for a long time, then said quietly:

— Different handwriting… Or different specializations. As if three different masters worked here.

Only then did Loyd notice, in the torn chest of the third body, a faintly gleaming mechanical part. It resembled a gear with thin wires embedded directly into the dead flesh. The metal pulsed with a weak, sickly light.

— What is that? — he whispered.

— I don’t know, — Isaac answered, narrowing his eyes. — But it’s not their usual method. It’s… something new. An experiment.

Dazed, Loyd reached for the mechanism without thinking.

— Don’t touch it! — Isaac snapped.

But it was too late.

Loyd’s fingertips touched the cold metal.

At that moment, the corpse jerked.

First sharply, convulsively, as if a charge had passed through it. Then, with a bone-crunching sound, it tumbled off the pile of garbage, struck the pavement, and began to rise with unnatural, spasmodic movements. Empty eye sockets fixed on them. The gear in its chest clicked and began to rotate with a sickening hiss. Its movements were jerky, wrong, but they carried blind, animalistic fury.

— What the hell?! — Loyd shouted, jumping back. — It’s… alive?..

“Not alive!” Sumrak yelled sharply. “It’s a forced impulse! Someone implanted an alchemical stimulator into the corpse!”

— Shoot it! In the mechanism! — Isaac commanded.

Loyd drew his pistol and fired. The bullet struck the metal part, ricocheted, only bending one of the wires. The corpse roared and lunged at him.

It was no longer a ghoul. No vampire taint. Nothing that still held a trace of humanity. Before Loyd moved a dead body turned into a weapon by someone’s cold will. And that was far more terrifying than any supernatural nightmare. There was no hunger, no rage, no curse here. Only calculation.

With a bony scrape, it charged forward.

“Strike! Right!” Sumrak warned.

Loyd instinctively dodged, avoiding the grab. The dead hand sliced through the air where his head had been a second before.

“Watch out, that’s not all!” Sumrak cried.

The corpse twisted its joints with a crack that made him want to cover his ears, and raised its arm again. This time, Loyd froze a fraction of a second too long.

A shot rang out.

Half the creature’s head exploded, and chunks of rotten flesh splattered across Loyd. Two more precise shots — and the body collapsed.

— Next time, be more careful, — Isaac said flatly, reloading his revolver. — Your life is on the line. Unless you have a spare one lying around.

Loyd exhaled, but relief didn’t come.