Chapter 554: The Last Cup

"Professor, this is..."

"Read it first."

The will was exceedingly clear. Mortimer had left almost his entire estate to Richard Williams.

This included all of the old professor's books, manuscripts, and collections, along with everything accumulated over eighty years of membership, as well as the unfinished New Century Dictionary.

Behind the will lay a page of letterhead from the Royal Anthropological Institute.

"Don't worry. These aren't for your use. You are only the heir in name."

Mortimer leaned back gently against his chair, his gaze drifting. "I've already spoken with the old president."

"If I ultimately fail, consider all this as payment for his help.

"Within a year, the old president will help you find every resource you need to advance to Minor Adept, and he will block anyone who needs to be blocked."

"And in a year, you still won't even be twenty."

Mortimer sighed with a touch of emotion. He had achieved his Minor Adept and Major Adept ranks through bitter, grinding effort. "Over the past hundred years, the number of Minor Adepts under the age of twenty can be counted on one hand."

"Once you reach Minor Adept, nearly everyone will realize that your future advancement to Major Adept is practically set in stone."

Richard clutched the will tightly, his lips pressed thin in silence.

The old professor thought back carefully.

"You've met the last genius Scholar who advanced to Minor Adept before turning twenty. It was the former director of the Turin Observatory."

"Back then, while everyone else was taking things step by step through their undergraduate and graduate studies, she had already completed a triple jump, becoming a lecturer and then an associate professor.

"She's about the same age as your aunt now, yet she has already been a Major Adept for many years."

He was naturally speaking of Minerva. Looking at it this way, it was no wonder she had managed to extricate herself with almost no losses after the team battle failed, and could even head to the New Continent to seek an opportunity to advance to Virtuoso.

If she succeeded... a Virtuoso under fifty, and one who had advanced as a Scholar of the star-map tradition—it was terrifying just to think about.

Mortimer chuckled, looking at Richard with eyes full of expectation.

"A Scholar who is a Major Adept will receive ample respect no matter where they go.

"Add to that the fact that youth is capital, and you will have a great chance to climb even higher... No one will dare underestimate you anymore, and no one will dare harbor any designs on your family or your assets." He paused. "By then, you will truly be able to protect them."

"As for this old man... heh heh heh, I can finally step down having accomplished my goals."

Silence fell over the room once more. Richard could clearly hear Evelyn and the butler outside, arguing over the oven temperature yet again.

After a long moment, he broke the quiet.

"Professor, saying such things before the ritual even begins is a bit ominous, isn't it?"

The old professor chuckled. Now that the moment was upon him, he was remarkably open-minded.

"I'm over a hundred years old. No matter what I do now, I have to consider the worst-case scenario first.

"Only by planning for the worst possible outcome can I prepare every countermeasure as thoroughly as possible."

He stood up and walked toward the door, leaning heavily on his cane.

Just as he reached the door, he turned back, still a little anxious, and instructed, "Hide the will. Don't let your aunt see it."

Richard nodded silently and put the document away.

As the professor closed the door, his footsteps gradually faded into the distance. ...

April 4th, Passion Sunday.

The people over in Czechia also called it Death Sunday.

When this day arrived, the children of Prague would gather to drive winter out of the city.

Standing by the river, Lillian watched the children walk and sing loudly: "We carry death out of the village, and welcome the new summer in..."

They made their way down to the riverbank, untied the straw effigy, and took off its skirt and eggshell necklace one by one.

Finally, the tallest boy took charge of throwing it into the river.

The straw doll floated on the surface for a long while before finally sinking beneath the water.

Only when they saw the effigy completely submerged did the children let out a cheer and scatter homeward.

"Her name is Morana."

Ms. Holloway appeared silently beside Lillian.

"She is the goddess of winter and death. Every spring, the Slavs throw her into the river. This is the drowning winter."

She pointed to the area where the straw effigy had sunk.

"Don't worry. She is thrown down every year, and she will return again next spring."

Lillian slowly turned around, meeting her eyes.

"When I was at the Rus Empire's table, this was the chair I sat in."

Ms. Holloway's voice carried no discernible fluctuation.

A breeze gradually picked up over the river, sending ripples spreading across the water in widening circles.

Ms. Holloway looked calmly toward the distant castle.

"As for the benefactor at our table, combining what you've found... you can probably guess who it is by now, right?"

Lillian maintained her silence.

"Elena Savolova," Ms. Holloway said openly, making no effort to hide it.

"She is a deep abyss medium at the Major Adept level. She came from the frozen soil in the north and has lived for over three hundred years."

They walked into a cafe by the river, sitting directly across from the national theater.

The interior decor was elegant. Waiters in tailcoats carrying trays wove gracefully among the guests. Ms. Holloway glanced at the man sitting at the next table and tapped her finger lightly on the tabletop.

The man yawned, took off his bowler hat, and covered his face with a newspaper. Soon, the sound of soft snoring filled the air.

Only then did Ms. Holloway continue speaking.

"The Austrians have been keeping a tight watch lately. A military tribunal in Vienna caught a Czech politician who had secret dealings with the Rus Empire, and they are interrogating him now."

"Because of that, anyone in this city with ties to the north is being monitored."

She slowly stirred her coffee with a spoon.

"You hold a Danish passport, and you do business with the people over there every month.

"If they find out, you will definitely be locked up."

Lillian stared at the steaming coffee in front of her and took a small sip.

"What exactly are you trying to say, or what do you want me to do? Just tell me straight."

Ms. Holloway smiled.

"Let me tell you a story first."

She began speaking of events from the year 1613.

That year, the Rus Empire was in the grip of extreme famine and civil war, and the Polish army had broken into Moscow. In the spring of that year, the nobles held an assembly in Moscow and ultimately elected a sixteen-year-old boy named Romanov to be the Tsar.

The new Tsar could barely be considered a distant relative of the previous Tsar, Ivan the Terrible, but as a whole, he belonged to a different family.

"That same year, Elena also came down from the northern frozen soil."

"The reason she could live for over three hundred years is that she has been burning the fuel of an entire dynasty.

"Over those three hundred years, Tsar after Tsar succeeded the throne, fought wars, expanded borders, killed, and built cities.

"And Elena kept watch over the lamp, burning it for three full centuries."

"The year 1913 marked the three-hundredth anniversary of the entire dynasty."

Ms. Holloway continued, "That day, all the Rus churches rang their bells. The streets of Petersburg were covered in flags, and the Tsar's family rode in carriages all the way from Moscow to the small city where their family first rose to power."

"The three-hundredth anniversary of the dynasty was also the three-hundredth anniversary of her sacrifice on the other side of the veil.

"The elder from Siberia in the palace was her body double."

Lillian finally looked up.

Ms. Holloway had almost finished her coffee.

"For a certain upcoming plan of hers, she needs to make a lot of preparations."

Lillian was very sharp, and she easily figured it out.

...She had already reached the rank of Major Adept, and was even the most renowned among them. The other party's plan could only be seeking to advance another step.

"The Iberia table is widely recognized as the weakest. Due to internal strife, they frequently rotate members and can only go around begging others for non-aggression."

"Loki has already agreed to join forces with us to swallow them up."

Hearing this, Lillian finally understood.

"You made me go fetch that tongue for this."

"Yes," Ms. Holloway nodded.

"Madam Elena and the one from the abyss have long since made contact. No matter what, you were always going to get that tongue.

"On the night of the team battle, you won't just benefit from Loki.

"I will also make you an unofficial member of our table, allowing you to reap a double harvest."

Lillian had never understood why Ms. Holloway brought her down this path.

The various ritual materials for her to practice the Path of the Abyss, her school tuition, travel expenses...

Even her mother's medicine and sanitarium fees were completely covered by Ms. Holloway, who never once asked for anything in return. As it turned out, the return they wanted was waiting right here.

"You are actually different from us. I don't know why, but despite practicing for so long, your emotions and other aspects remain remarkably well-preserved."

Lillian bit her lip, ignoring the comment, and simply asked, "I want to see your exact terms."

Ms. Holloway pulled out a piece of parchment and spread it out on the table, an expected smile on her face.

Lillian tapped the text with a pencil, reading it carefully line by line, before finally stopping the tip.

"My cut here is too small."

Ms. Holloway smiled.

"There are seven people at the Iberia table. The final split is based on the effort contributed."

Lillian's gaze was firm.

"I brought that tongue here. If that mouth comes looking for it, I'll be the target. So I want forty percent."

"Thirty."

"I want forty!"

Ms. Holloway smiled and shook her head.

"I taught many people when I was in the Imperial Capital. No one ever dared to bargain with me like this."

Lillian replied, "You are my mentor. I learned all of this from you."

Ms. Holloway didn't push the issue any further. She took the pencil, lightly crossed out thirty percent, and changed it to forty.

"And this."

Lillian pointed the pencil tip at the fifth line.

"'After the matter is settled, Madam Elena will bring mother back.' This part is too vague."

Lillian pushed the pencil back into Ms. Holloway's hand.

"I want a complete person brought back—a mother who remembers her daughter's name."

The corner of Ms. Holloway's mouth twitched slightly.

"Do you think she would bring back an empty shell for you?"

"I've seen that door. What comes out isn't necessarily what went in."

Ms. Holloway looked at her. For the first time, a trace of indescribable melancholy appeared on that face whose features could never quite be remembered.

She slightly raised her wrist and modified the line.

"Also, I want an advance payment right now."

Lillian spoke up again.

"If my strength increases, I'll be better equipped to handle things for you."

Ms. Holloway nodded.

By the time they had settled the terms, the man at the next table slowly woke up.

He rubbed his eyes, somewhat baffled as to how he had suddenly fallen asleep.

On the other side, Professor Mortimer had already prepared the materials for his advancement.

When Richard arrived at the Petrie Building, he found the professor staring intently at the hanging knot cord.

The old professor took the bark paper, opened a sheet, and held it up to the daylight streaming through the window, inspecting it repeatedly.

"No one has written on it. Yes, this is exactly what I need."

Mortimer stood up with his cane.

"Come on, accompany me to say my goodbyes. It shouldn't take up too much of your time."

He pulled the door open. Outside lay only a low-slung stone house.

An old woman was squatting by the stove, roasting potatoes. Hearing the noise, she turned around and was startled by the sight before her.

A hunchbacked old man and a young fellow had somehow just stepped out of her storage room.

"Wh-who are you..."

"I apologize, madam."

Mortimer took off his hat and bowed. "I lived in this house when I was a child."

The old woman opened her mouth, her gaze darting between him and the door of the storage room.

Ultimately, she bent down, picked up the fire tongs, and pointed at the stove.

"Then... have a seat first. The potatoes are almost ready."

Mortimer remained standing by the stove, his eyes sweeping over everything in the room.

A cabinet stood in the corner, and atop it rested a photograph of a young man in a khaki military uniform, with an envelope lying beside it.

"There used to be... a stocking weaving machine right there," the old professor murmured to himself.

"It had an iron frame and wooden pedals, and was much taller than I was. My father worked at it from morning till night, yet barely earned a few pennies all year round.

"When I was seven or eight, I would sit beside him and help. By the time I was around ten, a passing priest at the village entrance heard me recite a few lines of Latin and took me away. He said I didn't belong here.

"That morning, my mother shoved two potatoes into my hands. They were so hot I kept tossing them from hand to hand the whole way.

"She never read a single book in her entire life. I've written over a hundred, and she probably never laid eyes on a single one of them."

The old woman used the tongs to pull out two potatoes, wrapped them in a cloth, and handed them to Mortimer.

"Here, eat these on the road."

The two men returned to the Petrie Building.

Mortimer broke a potato in half and handed one piece to Richard.

"Eat."

The remaining doors opened, one after another.

The year 1817, the Year Without a Summer.

Back then, Mortimer had gone on his first fieldwork assignment, standing before a massive stone on the moor.

"A volcano in the South Seas erupted that year. The volcanic ash drifted around the entire globe, completely erasing the summer of the Old Continent."

They stood before that stone as the wind wildly whipped the hem of the old professor's overcoat.

"People back then all said the apocalypse had descended. At night I was thinking, 'Hiss... if the end of the world really is here, it would be a terrible shame to die like this when I'm still so young and haven't read so many books.'"

Richard silently committed these words to memory.

The year 1844, the bedroom where the professor's mentor, Tobias Wren, had lived before he passed away.

It had now become a tobacco shop. When the owner saw two people walk out of the small closet where he kept his brooms, the pipe in his mouth nearly dropped. Mortimer walked up to the counter and placed his hand on it.

"The bed was right here back then."

"He was wearing an old pair of slippers that day. The heel of the left one was worn through. I had told him long ago that I would get him a new pair, but I never did.

"He was leaning against the headboard, editing my manuscript. By the time he reached the fourth page, the pen slipped from his hand."

"I bent down to pick it up, and when I rose, I realized he was gone."

The old professor stared at a jar of snuff on the counter.

"Boss, do you carry a pipe tobacco called 'College Gentleman'? It's a brand from seventy years ago."

The plump owner blinked.

"A brand from seventy years ago is long gone, but we do have one called 'Old Pedant' that should taste similar."

"Give me an ounce."

Mortimer paid the money and stuffed the pouch of tobacco into his overcoat pocket. He had never smoked a day in his life.

Then came the grave of his older brother, Samuel, and his older sister, Hannah. The old professor visited all eleven of his classmates from that era.

Some still had graves; for others, the old professor only remembered their residences, though the houses had long since changed owners.

At each door, he would pause for a moment and speak a few words.

By the time they reached the seventeenth door, night had already fallen.

Mortimer returned to his office and spread a piece of paper on his knee.

"In the year 1893, a heavy fog rolled in over the sea."

Outside the door lay the riverbank of Greenwich.

The River Thames was very peaceful, especially in April. Only a scattering of barges drifted on the water.

Mortimer stood quietly on the riverbank, looking at the cranes on the pier opposite them.

The fog rolling over the river grew thicker, carrying with it a salty tang and the stench of coal smoke.

Millions of chimneys were spewing out coal smoke that mixed into the fog, giving it a sickly, yellowish-black hue so dense you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.

Richard's throat tightened, and he couldn't help but cough a couple of times. This fog had dissipated in the Material Realm twenty-three years ago.

But on this side of the veil, it had lingered ever since, nailed dead to the riverbank like an un-washable stain.

A faint, indistinct voice echoed through the fog.

"Professor... I can't see... The fog is too thick..."

The voice repeated this single phrase over and over, saying it again every little while.

Mortimer slowly sat down, leaning against an iron piling, and laid his cane across his knees.

"His name was Felix. He became my student when he was seventeen.

"I was already a Major Adept by then. I had taught countless students, but his talent was the finest of them all."

"Give him a book and he'd finish it in three days, then come argue with me about where it was wrong. Only after we were done arguing would I realize the boy had been right."

"He was the most prized student of my entire life. He reached Major Adept right at forty, years earlier than I did."

"And he wanted to climb higher."

"Many people died in the Imperial Capital that winter. Almost every fog that rolled through took a huge batch of lives with it—coughing to death, suffocating to death, too many to count..."

Mortimer stared at the fog in front of him and slowly reached out his hand.

"The doctors diagnosed it as bronchitis. At any rate, they registered it as natural death."

"Plagues have their verdicts, and shipwrecks have their elegies, but the people suffocated by coal smoke had nothing.

"Their dying breath swirled in the fog, accumulating year after year."

"Felix said this was a completely new way to die, and he wanted to establish a brand-new set of verdicts for it.

"If he had succeeded, it would have been a new great deed."

"During the heaviest fog of the winter of 1893, he went in alone."

The professor narrated slowly. The wind picked up over the river, but it only made the thick fog sway slightly.

"I was standing right here watching. There were far too many things in the fog that day—things from the sea, things that drifted over from the city, and things that had been buried under this riverbank for centuries..."

"His ritual was only halfway done when all of them swarmed him.

"Afterward, the fog vanished, and nothing remained."

"Only this voice... intermittent... repeating over and over..."

Richard stood beside the old professor, listening intently, without having time to write down a single word.

"He used to have a little dog with a black spot on its ear and a limp in its hind leg. Its name was..."

Professor Mortimer's words abruptly ceased.

"That dog followed him in, and it didn't make it out either."

"Over the years, I've spent my time fishing on the canal."

The old professor stroked his cane.

"...Half of the reason was just that I wanted to look at this riverbank a little more."

...

The first volume of the New Century Dictionary was finally finalized on April 14th.

From "Night Crater" to "Combat Fatigue," all one thousand and thirty-seven headwords were arranged perfectly.

In the basement of the Petrie Building, Edith and Fischer completed their final proofreading.

They, along with a few other students roped in to help, had spent three full days and nights checking page numbers and verifying spellings.

Because the pay Mortimer offered was generous, and he promised it would bolster their academic resumes, quite a few people had joined the cataloging effort.

As it turned out, all these people had worked up to this point firmly believing that the professor was simply compiling a new type of general encyclopedia for beyond the veil, purely contributing to academia. They could never have imagined the massive waves this New Century Dictionary would eventually create on the mystical side.

On the afternoon of the third day, Greer rushed into the basement like a madman and slammed the proofsheet in his hand onto the table.

"Professor, how could you leak the secret?"

Mortimer picked up his teacup and took a sip, his tone unruffled.

"Speak up. Which entry is the problem?"

"Tank! The water tank! Why on earth did you include that? If I had known, I never would have told you about it."

Greer stabbed his finger heavily at one of the lines.

"If the people at the War Office see this, do you honestly believe they won't drag us straight to a tribunal?"

Mortimer pulled the proof over and glanced at it.

"Water tank, noun: an iron container originally used to hold water. Isn't that exactly what the word means? Is there a problem?"

"Ah?" Greer was slightly taken aback.

"According to what you said before, didn't they want everyone to mistake this 'secret weapon' for a tin can used to hold water?"

The old professor slowly pushed the proof back.

"By printing this name in the book, everyone will think it really is just a box for holding water. I am keeping their secret in disguise."

Greer opened his mouth, finding himself unable to refute the logic.

"I'd like to take this to them for another look..."

"As you wish," Mortimer said without even batting an eyelid.

"If they want it removed, tell them that abruptly deleting it will only draw more attention."

Greer left, still muttering curses under his breath.

Returning to the advancement ritual, the various materials purchased earlier each had their own specific uses.

Printing the headwords required Cochineal Red. When these shriveled little bugs were ground into powder and mixed into the printing press ink, they produced a deep crimson that looked like dried blood, or overripe cherries.

This natural pigment was often used in food and cosmetics.

"In the Middle Ages, half the chapter titles monks copied out were written in red ink."

"In Latin, red is called ruber, and a red title is rubric. That is where our modern term 'rubric' comes from."

As Mortimer thought about this, he scratched his fingernail hard against that crimson headword.

"The red uniforms of the Empire's soldiers are dyed with these very same bugs."

The cross-indexing for the entire dictionary, meanwhile, was arranged according to Andean Knots.

In the past, the Incas had used these knotted cords for bookkeeping—to record populations, or how many sacks of corn a family owed them. Even though there wasn't a single written word on them, the record-keeper could understand them with absolute clarity.

Dozens of thin strings branched down from the main cord, and each of those thin strings split into even finer threads.

The old professor sighed.

"Words are not the only things capable of keeping records."

Thus, the dictionary absorbed things that no previous dictionary would have ever included.

A photograph, the serial number of a wax cylinder recording, the short and long bursts of a telegraph pulse—all were cataloged as text.

The connections between entries branched downward, mirroring the structure of the knotted cords.

Under each headword hung three to five usages, and beneath the usages hung their sources and corroborative evidence.

The title page, meanwhile, was made of bark paper.

Mortimer glanced out the window.

"A new dictionary must be written on paper that no one has ever used."

The editor on the title page was naturally his own name, but the continuation section remained nameless, containing only a single sentence.

Continued by: Someone who will keep reading on my behalf.

"Why didn't you print the name here?" Isabella asked, her brow furrowing as she pointed at the blank continuation field.

"Print whose name? Printing it there would be the same as publicly declaring them my successor for all to see."

Mortimer's tone was calm.

"Those who have been named by this dictionary would follow that name right to them."

"It is enough that they look for me."

He threw a glance at Richard.

"...A child prodigy who has fallen and stood back up should not be exposed to the public eye."

On the afternoon of April 15th, Mortimer brought Richard to the Royal Anthropological Institute once more.

The floating pen in the president's office began to write silently, ink gradually appearing on the ledger:

Continued by: Richard Williams.

This notarization would naturally become public after the advancement ritual.

The old professor slowly closed the ledger.

By April 20th, Richard's spirit had fully regenerated.

When he woke up that morning, he discovered that the glowing tree of his Micro-circulation behind his sternum had finally unfurled again. All the branches had been restored to their original state, and the leaves had spread out, looking exactly as they had before the winter solstice.

It seemed that popping condensate every day had been useful after all. However, by now, he didn't have much condensate left. Before, Shadow would only eat a few pieces a month; now, he himself was popping two or three pieces a day, nearly depleting his entire stockpile.

Speaking of Shadow, he stared quietly at the patch of shade beneath his bed.

He didn't know if it was an illusion, but he felt as though his shadow had just shifted slightly.

The day of the professor's advancement was fast approaching.

Sitting in his office, Mortimer savored his tea and sighed emotionally.

"In the Albion Language, Shakespeare counts as one of the most remarkable word-creators of all."

"Assassination, lonely, eyeball, swagger... he was the first to write all these words into a book.

"Three hundred years ago, he gave names to things in the world that had none."

He slowly set his teacup down.

"The man who coined those words is dead. Today, it is our turn to give things names."

The publication schedule for the New Century Dictionary moved forward methodically.

The first volume was distributed as a supplement with the Saturday, April 22nd edition of The Times.

The seal was made of red paper, bearing a line of small text: To be sold at nine o'clock on Easter night.

An extra issue of Collection of Strange Tales was also added that same day, and the newsboys slung it over their shoulders and headed out bright and early.

The Wartime Abnormal Affairs Coordination Administration also paid to print a batch, slipping them into the magazines and books being sent to military camps and hospitals.

Kasalis signed off on it personally, providing the justification: A compilation of wartime folklore and soldier terminology, beneficial for maintaining troop morale.

He ran into Mortimer in the corridor and gave the old professor a deep bow.

Those soldiers featured in the Ypres Times also sent letters from the frontlines, saying they wanted copies too.

So the old professor called upon his connections and managed to arrange a special Shakespeare issue for Easter.

A bold line was added next to the title: Readers of this paper are requested to open this together in their bunkers at nine o'clock on Easter night, in celebration of the holiday.

The release time was based on the Greenwich observatory. At nine o'clock on Easter night, telegraph offices across the nation would simultaneously transmit a single time-check signal.

At four o'clock on the afternoon of April 23rd, the Albion Museum closed early.

Today was the Easter holiday, making an early closure entirely understandable.

All visitors were ushered out. The groundskeeper scattered sawdust across the steps, soaking up all the mud tracked in by the tourists until the stone was perfectly clean.

At seven-thirty in the evening, Director Wetherby came in through the side door carrying a ring of keys and unlocked the domed reading room. A ring of skylights circled the dome overhead, while bookshelves rose layer upon layer from the floor all the way to the ceiling.

It was here that Dickens had applied for his first reader's card at the age of eighteen, before going on to write books for the rest of his life.

Director Wetherby turned on the lights one by one, the green glass-shaded desk lamps casting a verdant glow.

Standing at the doorway, Richard felt a chill crawl up his spine as he stared at the green lights.

Mortimer hobbled past him on his cane and walked inside.

"Don't be afraid. Wetherby turned these lights on. It isn't that one."

The reading table right in the center had been wiped completely spotless. It held only the four materials required for the advancement:

A box of Cochineal Red, bark paper that had never been written on, Andean Knots, and a cup of Darjeeling tea.

Mortimer slowly sat down with his cane.

Richard also pulled out a chair and sat down beside him. He opened his notebook, clutching the professor's book, People I Know.

For this advancement ritual, he was serving as the recorder.

To Mortimer's right sat Isabella and Clara, while MacFie stood guard at the door.

Director Wetherby stood beneath the bookshelves, gazing this way with a solemn expression. There was one other figure sitting across the reading table—an entity molded out of ink, possessing only a rough outline.

The old president of the Royal Anthropological Institute had come to serve as a witness. Because of his presence, the caliber of this ritual was instantly elevated.

At eight-fifty, Mortimer picked up the Darjeeling tea and took a small sip. He held each mouthful in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, and only then did he take the next.

Only when nothing but dregs remained at the bottom did Mortimer set the cup down and let out a soft sigh.

"This is the last cup."

The room was deadly silent. Everyone tried their best to suppress even the sound of their breathing.

No one spoke. Everyone present knew exactly what those words meant.

Whether he successfully advanced or not, the professor's tea would certainly never taste the same again.

At eight fifty-nine, the clock in the museum lobby, which had just been synchronized, began to tick away the final minute.

At nine o'clock sharp, the time-check signal in the telegraph office let out a single beep.

Within that exact same minute, a new page was turned for the entire Empire.