Chapter 555: He Who Named the Entities of the New Age

At 13 Chelsea Road, Evelyn stood on tiptoe on a chair, struggling to take down the newspaper and tear open its red seal.

In Slag Alley in Briston, Margaret sat by the stove and opened the Collection of Strange Tales, the firelight casting a bright red glow on her face.

In an office at Greenwood School, Mr. Hutton stood before his bookshelf and slowly opened the supplement to The Times.

On the Ypres frontline, inside a bunker crammed with a dozen soldiers, the only literate corporal cleared his throat and began reading the Ypres Times aloud.

In a field hospital, a nurse sat in the center of the ward while patients crowded around to watch her open a periodical.

Inside the Domed Reading Room, Mortimer turned to the title page of the first volume.

Printed on the bark paper was the final stanza of the dirge from Cymbeline:

"No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!..."

"Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have;

And renowned be thy grave!"

Beneath the dirge followed a judgment, written using new terms from the dictionary:

"The fog of the gas craters, the operator on the telephone line, the mustard hound beneath the bomb crater, the man sitting beside you, shivering and counting shells under his breath: you have names now!"

"You who died by shipwreck, you who died by fire falling from the sky, you who died by the endless machine guns... your ways of death have names now! Go home!"

Mortimer read the judgment word by word. At that same moment, hundreds of thousands of voices echoed across the Empire, reciting the sentences alongside him.

The green lamp in the reading room dimmed slightly.

Richard watched as the other side of the veil slowly inverted, and all the named evil creatures turned their heads.

One thousand and thirty-seven headwords pulled on one thousand and thirty-seven threads.

Whether it was the fog in the gas craters, the yellow-throated hounds in the bomb craters, the bell ropes dangling beneath airship gondolas... or those nameless things that defied description, sketched onto scraps of paper by soldiers.

Now, they recognized only one person.

Drawn by those thousand-plus threads, the evil creatures lunged toward the Domed Reading Room.

The bookshelves sprang into motion at the same time. Every book Mortimer had ever read now began reading him in return. Pages rustled in a blinding blur, sounding like a sudden downpour beating against a tin roof.

Every book, every page—every word and punctuation mark—stared at the man who had once read them.

The old professor grew pale.

The old president, molded from ink, finally spoke: "Recorder, read!"

Richard hurriedly opened People I Know.

"Samuel, elder brother. 1788 to 1856. Stocking weaver."

The moment he read it, a light slowly bloomed over the corresponding name on the page.

An evil creature slammed into the light, unable to advance another inch.

Everyone could see its shape clearly: a mass of festering mud from the bottom of a crater, wrapping around half a rusted bayonet.

Mortimer glanced at it and wrote in carmine ink on the bark paper: Crater Sludge.

With the final stroke, the ferocious evil creature collapsed onto the floor, reducing to a ordinary clump of mud.

The light around "Samuel" dimmed. The dead were anchors, and anchors were an irreplaceable commodity.

"Hannah, elder sister. 1790 to 1861. Married in Loughborough. Seven children; three survived."

Another beam flared up, blocking a lunging evil creature before the ink faded.

"Father, Joshua. A stocking weaver from Leicestershire."

"Mother, Martha. Illiterate. Stuffed two roasted potatoes into my hands on the day I left home at eleven."

As he read, Richard's voice turned hoarse, an inexplicable lump rising in his throat.

He glanced at the old professor and saw the nib of his pen trembling slightly.

That entry stayed lit the longest, holding off over a dozen evil creatures in succession.

Mortimer quickly composed himself, writing faster and faster.

With every name he wrote, a hint of nostalgia settled on his face, as if he were trading his own memories and affection for each stroke of the pen.

"Mentor, Tobias Wren. 1768 to 1844."

"Harold Kingsley, classmate. 1790 to 1861. Once owed me a shilling and promised to pay me back in the next life."

"Elias Grant, classmate..."

Richard read the names faster and faster.

Too many new things had accumulated on the front line over the past two years. Beneath the thousand headwords were countless subentries, each heavy with named evil creatures and dead souls.

They surged along those threads in a relentless flood.

But the old professor had lived only a hundred years; there were only so many people he could remember.

The ritual was only halfway through, yet the earlier names had dimmed until they were almost invisible.

Richard's palms slicked with sweat. The names were burning away far faster than the evil creatures were pouncing.

Once the names ran out, the old professor would be in grave danger.

Just then, a light flared in the distance.

At Greenwood School, the newspaper in Mr. Hutton's hand suddenly grew warm.

He looked down to see a glowing thread extend from his chest, piercing the night toward the Imperial Capital.

A memory surfaced in Mr. Hutton's mind. More than forty years ago, his mentor had taken him to see a professor.

He had seen a nearly bald old man sitting in an office, his back not nearly as hunched as it was now.

The professor had been too busy to glance up, merely tossing him a book and telling him to read it before coming back.

Mr. Hutton dusted off his clothes. Standing by the window facing the Imperial Capital, he said softly, "Professor, I am here!"

At the same time, in the Petrie Building, Croft was drinking tea in his office when his hand trembled, nearly dropping his cup.

A glowing thread extended from his chest, shooting toward the Museum.

Greer in the workshop at the School of Engineering, Pendleton at the filing cabinets, Director Wetherby beneath the reading room bookshelves...

In churches, schools, and bookstores across the Empire, in frontline bunkers, on field hospital cots, aboard navy ships... threads lit up from countless people.

Wetherby stared at the thread on his chest, momentarily dazed.

He remembered his undergraduate days over sixty years ago, when Mortimer was still an associate professor.

He had dozed off in class and been snapped awake by a copy of Ancient Greek Grammar thrown at his head. He had never forgotten the impact of that book on his forehead.

Isabella sat at a reading table, her chest glowing as well.

Clara's chest lit up too, her thread branching off from Isabella's.

For over eighty years, Professor Mortimer had taught countless students, and those students had taken students of their own, branching out across the land.

Living or dead, associate professors, lecturers, country vicars, schoolteachers, or soldiers crouching in trenches...

In that single moment, every one of them became an anchor point.

Countless threads converged from across the Empire, flowing into the old professor.

peak after peak of evil creatures were blocked, unable to advance another inch.

Richard kept turning the pages of People I Know.

The dimmed names on the earlier pages held their final glimmer of light, refusing to fade completely.

The pen over the old president's chest slowly descended, sweeping through the air to weave the threads into a massive, solid net around Mortimer.

Richard reached the final pages of People I Know.

"Richard Williams..."

That night at the Genoa Inn, while wearing the Helm of Hades to stand invisible behind the old professor, he had seen this page for the first time.

Now he could see it all.

Beneath the line "Wordsworth says, the child is father of the man," the old professor had added another line in fresh ink:

"December 28th, finally woke up again."

Richard stared at the line, a tightness in his throat.

He looked up at the crowded room and filled in the blank after "Birth year to be confirmed."

"Born in 1897."

Richard's name lit up, brighter than any other on the pages.

As his new anchor point took hold, Mortimer's net stabilized.

The swarm of evil creatures dwindled rapidly, no longer posing a threat.

Mortimer finished writing the last name and collapsed back into his chair, completely spent, gasping for air. Richard suddenly noticed a layer of fog creeping across the floor—yellowish black, thick with coal smoke and a salty stench.

It was the fog of 1893. It had returned!

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

The voice echoed again.

Professor Mortimer picked up his red pen. Staring into the fog that held an eternal scar in his memory, his voice trembled slightly.

"Of course I haven't forgotten you, Felix."

As the name was written line by line on the bark paper, the fog slowly dissipated, and the voice that had repeated itself for twenty-three years finally went silent.

In the final moment before the fog cleared, the voice let out a soft, relieved chuckle.

He had finally walked all the way back to his doorstep from far away, calling out to his dog at the gate: "Tray!"

In King Lear, the mad old king had stood in the storm, shouting to his imaginary dogs: Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart!

The fog vanished completely.

High above the North Sea, the Wild Hunt was taking a rest above the clouds. A limping hound suddenly raised its head, looking toward the southwest.

The Old Scholar rode up from the front, holding his roster.

He looked at the small dog, then turned his gaze toward the southwest.

On the other side of the veil, north of Ypres.

The fog in the gas craters gathered into thick clumps, pushing toward the Albion trenches alongside a yellow wind.

Halfway there, they froze, then dissolved on the spot, leaving a thin layer of white frost at the bottom of the crater.

One of the clumps even coughed twice before dispersing.

The yellow-throated hounds in the bomb craters lowered their heads onto their front paws.

Countless men choked to death by poison gas crawled out from the dirt beneath the trenches. As the wind blew away the yellow-green haze on their bodies, their original features emerged.

Every dead soldier remembered how he had died, lining up in quiet order.

On the seabed of Scapa, the eight hundred sailors who had marched into the rift turned back.

Where the Tania had sunk, the spirits floating on the surface settled quietly into the depths. On the Walsall tram, along Tipton Street, and beneath the ruins of the Burton Brewery... those killed by aerial fire from the airships were all recognized by a single judgment.

The men cut down by machine guns and piled against the barbed wire finally lay down to rest.

Hundreds of thousands of newly dead, who had lacked a final judgment, fell into absolute sleep batch by batch tonight.

In Milan, inside the Ambrosian Library.

The old chess player sat behind the circulation desk, reading the first volume of the New Century Dictionary by lamplight.

The librarian slowly closed the book, took out a seal, and stamped the title page: "Archived."

The moment the seal fell, every newborn evil creature felt it at once: they had been entered into the catalog.

In the gas craters, on the barbed wire, beneath the airship gondolas, inside the telephone lines... without exception.

In the reading room, Richard remained seated at Mortimer's left hand, the cover of People I Know soaked through with the sweat of his palms.

His fingers had been trembling all night.

He realized he had begun to understand how to make the dead hear his reading, how to record a name so it would light up on the other side of the veil, and how to set an anchor to hold the structure steady...

He had absorbed these details by watching the old professor's ritual from beginning to end. The numbers on his panel were jumping wildly, but he had no time to check them.

The Sphinx Lamp in his arms grew warm. When he reached out to press it, his fingers brushed against a groove.

The third score mark was slowly moving forward again!

He pulled out the lamp and saw that the sleeping human face carved into the Sphinx Lamp had opened its eyes wide, staring straight at him.

"Mortimer, what you chose to do was far too grand."

The old president did not speak, but the nib of his pen swept across the paper, scattering flecks of ink.

Mortimer leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-closed.

"Anyone else at this stage would only need to accomplish one thing of sufficient weight."

"...Restoring a lost ancient discipline or founding a new school of thought would have been enough."

"Yet you insisted on naming every single nameless entity for a new age still at war, one by one."

"The few traces you had left in this world were nearly drained away completely."

"I know," Mortimer said, his voice raspy.

"If you hadn't taught so many students, and if that person and I hadn't helped you, you would have ended up just like your student."

Mortimer opened his eyes and looked at the faceless man across the table.

"But I succeeded."

Silence fell over the room once more.

Isabella had stopped unwrapping her candy halfway through. Her eyes were red, her lower lip bitten tight.

Clara set down the replica tuning fork. MacFie raised a hand, pretending to wipe off sweat while rubbing his eyes. No one said a word.

The advancement of the New Virtuoso was complete.

At that moment, readers across the Empire seemed to feel something in their hearts, raising their heads all at once.

In Milan, the old chess player reached out and moved a piece forward one square.

In the Alps, the faceless star-chart Virtuoso picked up a quill and added a new star to the Star Catalog.

That night, the veil recorded the three completed segments of his honorific name.

"He who dwells in the crevices of old paper, sleeping alongside the silverfish." Mortimer had written this when he advanced to Minor Adept in 1824, mocking himself as a bookworm living between the pages.

"He who named the entities of the new age."

This was the grand achievement of the New Century Dictionary—an idea that had long taken root in his mind, finally sparked into action by Richard.

"...Whose body has become a book, whose heart has become a tome, leaving only a single word to eternally command ten thousand names!"

The third line had been written tonight.

Sitting in his chair, Mortimer finally smiled with genuine joy, like a fisherman who had waited all afternoon to see his float bob.

Richard saw him sitting in that chair, yet also saw him sitting in many places at once:

In the library of Imperial Capital University, on the third floor of Greenwood School, in the courtyard in Milan, on an ammunition crate spread with newspapers in a frontline bunker... wherever someone opened this dictionary, he was sitting there.

Mortimer turned his head toward his chosen successor.

He extended a trembling right hand and pushed the chipped teacup across the table. The tea dregs at the bottom were already dry.

"Next time there's tea, remember to pour me a cup."

Richard took the cup in both hands, nodding firmly. Mortimer turned to Isabella, noticing the candy in her hand had been squeezed completely out of shape.

"...Isabella."

"Professor, I am here!"

"Cancel my dentist appointment for next Wednesday."

Isabella froze, then tears burst from her eyes.

She wept, then began to laugh through her tears, sobbing so hard she didn't know what to say.

Those were the last words spoken by the man named Mortimer in this world.

The old professor closed his eyes once more.

When Wetherby opened the door to the Domed Reading Room, the chair in the center was empty.

An old coat hung over the back, an unopened pouch of "Old Pedant" tobacco still tucked in its pocket.

On the table lay a slip of paper with eighteen lines of writing—every single line crossed out—and two cold roasted potatoes.

Richard walked over to where the professor had been sitting and retrieved a tin of tea leaves. He unscrewed his flask and brewed half a cup of Darjeeling for the professor.

Steam rose slowly, dispersing the moment it reached the rim.

..................

The fourth floor of the old building on Printing House Square housed the obituary department of The Times, commonly known as the "morgue."

The posthumous records of every prominent figure in the Empire were prepared here.

Drawers were arranged alphabetically by surname. Bishops, generals, university professors, and opera sopranos alike were each assigned a kraft paper envelope containing a pre-drafted biography, leaving only the date of death blank.

While a subject was still alive, the department would pull the envelope every few years to make updates.

They would add newly awarded medals or honorary titles, or quietly remove old scandals that no one remembered.

In March, Mortimer's envelope had been updated by the deputy editor.

Just yesterday, looking at the blank line after "aged," he had joked with a colleague: "According to instructions from above, we'll actually get to use this one soon."

At four in the morning, a single lamp burned in the office.

The deputy editor went upstairs to fetch proofs and heard the Linotype machine clattering in the corner. The operators had long since gone home, and the dust cover was still draped over the keyboard.

The matrices stored in the high magazine were dropping down one by one.

Brass clinked against brass in a steady, crisp rhythm.

He stood at the door, watching hot lead slugs roll out from beneath the casting arm into the galley tray.

Wrapping a handkerchief around his hand, he picked up the lead slug and held it under the light.

The letters were reversed, but as a composing room man, he recognized them instantly:

"Obituary nullified."

The deputy editor hurried back to the fourth floor, pulled open the "M" drawer, and pulled out Mortimer's envelope.

layout of his biography hadn't changed, but behind every instance of "formerly served as" and "formerly authored," a small smudge of ink bloomed, as if pressed by a thumb.

As for the penciled age he had tentatively written in, it had been erased clean.

He set the envelope down and lit his pipe.

"Mark Twain once said reports of his death were greatly exaggerated... at least that fellow wrote to the paper to protest in person."

Outside the window, a pale blue light touched the horizon. Morning newsboys were already gathering at the street corner, blowing on their cold hands.

In the faculty quarters at Imperial Capital University.

Professor Wyndham rose before dawn, earlier even than the servants preparing breakfast.

Old men slept little. At five-thirty every morning, he would sit at his desk to read a passage from Horace before attending to university business.

Today, a manuscript lay on his desk titled: The Last Sentinel of the Classics Tradition: In Memory of Professor Mortimer.

He had written it in March, believing he had kept it restrained, objective, and fair—suitable to be read on any occasion.

When he finished it, he remembered looking out the window with a sigh: You've finally gone ahead of me, old fool. Having me write this eulogy is certainly better than letting those youngsters do it.

Now, looking at the manuscript again, fine beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

The paper was covered in corrections. On the first page, a tense and an article had been altered.

A quote he had cited from Cicero was heavily circled, with marginal notes beside it.

A subjunctive construction he had used for sixty years was crossed out in red ink, replaced with the correct conjugation.

Beneath it, a large word was written in red ink: "Foolish." He counted them up—seventeen corrections in all.

On the final page, a line of fresh red text stood out glaringly, the ink not yet dry: "You wrote your eulogy too early!"

The pen slipped from his hand, rolling halfway across the word "Watchman" in the title.

When the maid brought in morning tea, she found him staring blankly at the manuscript, his lips moving silently.

Assuming he was saying his prayers, she set down the tray and quietly withdrew.

The duty room at Bart's Hospital faced east, overlooking the roofs of the meat market.

The market was closed for Easter, and pigeons lined the roof ridges.

Dr. Hale, a Major Adept of the Solar Tradition who had previously examined Richard, had not slept all night. He sat staring fixedly out the window.

At a dinner party back in March, he had drunk too much and declared in front of everyone:

"The Classical Tradition is a dead branch. It hasn't sprouted a bud in one hundred and forty-three years, and hasn't grown a single leaf since 1773."

"The old professor is making all this noise just to throw himself a funeral and have the whole nation carry his coffin."

He remembered the moment clearly because the entire table had set down their cutlery. At the time, he had assumed his words had carried great weight.

Hale stood up, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water over his face, barely managing to suppress the fear in his chest.

In the Montagu family breakfast room, the old Earl was served a bowl of clear broth due to his poor stomach.

Before drinking, he tapped his spoon against the bowl to draw everyone's attention.

"I said long ago that what my old friend attempted was simply too vast. Even burning through his own life wouldn't be enough. Imperial Capital University can start discussing his successor today."

At the far end of the long table, Alexander Montagu kept his head down, drinking his soup in silence.

As soon as the Earl finished speaking, a dazzling golden light coalesced on the eastern windowpane: "Little fellow, you may prepare your gift."

The Earl froze.

Colonel Javier lowered his newspaper, glanced at his father's face, then at the floating words, and quickly bit back a reaction.

The Earl muttered to himself, "Prepare a gift?"

Alexander kept his head down, sipping his soup.

Back in February, his family had sent him to Ashford House two or three times in a single week. His uncle had merely told him: "Just go. Courtesy never hurts."

He had assumed it was out of family goodwill, or some old friendship between his grandfather and Lord Gerard.

It turned out the family had known all along, yet kept him in the dark, sending him off like a trained parrot.

He set down his bowl. "Grandfather, what gift should we prepare?"

The Earl remained silent for a long time before tossing his napkin onto the table. "Ask your uncle. I'm going back to rest."

—

Virtuosos rarely relied on personal ties, even when placing wagers.

None of them trusted one another; whenever bets were made, they required a guarantor.

And among the Virtuosos of the Imperial Capital, only one could serve as guarantor.

On Friday, April 21st, inside the President's office at the Royal Anthropological Institute.

The ledger flipped open on its own to the latest page, lines of text emerging on the paper:

"Mortimer's advancement: wager on success or failure. All witnessing, interest calculation, and settlement are reserved by this Institute."

The wager began.

The Sun was the first to write, leaving behind a line of scorched-yellow script:

"Wager: Failure. Stake: An ancient seal of the Goldsmith Guild. Reason: The forest of steles for the Classical Tradition is full; no one has added to it since 1773."

The script of the Furnace Fire scorched a row of tiny blisters into the paper:

"Wager: Failure. Stake: A peck of bell-casting slag. Reason: The ley lines beneath the Imperial Capital cannot support a third."

The writing from the Deep Waters of True North left the page damp:

"Wager: Failure. Stake: A bog-bottom well. Reason: Foundation far too shallow."

The golden-wrapped flame from the West wrote simply: "Wager: Failure. Same as above." The ledger did not accept wagers without stakes, and the ink faded from the page.

The flame had to rewrite its entry: "Wager: Failure. Stake: A spoonful of molten gold. Reason: Following the crowd."

The old president added a note: "Honesty is commendable."

The lord of the hunt hesitated until the very end, its hoofprints stamping back and forth across the page before producing a single line:

"Wager: Failure. Stake: One collection piece. Reason: The net behind that old man is too thin."

The old president asked: "Which item?"

The hoofprints stamped about again, spelling out: "Half an item..."

"This Institute does not accept half items," the old president rejected flatly.

The lord of the hunt cursed from beyond the veil, and a line finally settled onto the paper: "A copper button picked up at Waterloo."

Only two entities bet on success.

One was the faceless Star Map master, who staked a blank entry on the Star Catalog, claiming to have calculated the outcome.

The other was Matthew, as bold as ever, staking a pot of unburnt fish. The ledger remained silent for a long moment, as if struggling before producing the text: "This stake cannot be valued."

Matthew remained nonchalant: "Priceless items are worth the most."

The ledger compromised: "Recorded as priceless."

A gust of air flipped the page, leaving behind a faint pencil mark:

"Wind never wagers."

Those who bet on failure had solid grounds: the forest of steles was full, the Imperial Capital was crowded, and the net behind the old man was thin.

Only the Star Map master and Matthew differed—the former through astrological insight, and the latter through having walked barefoot through the mud of the New Continent for over a decade.

At daybreak on Monday, every clock on Great Russell Street slowed by one minute simultaneously.

The pigeons in the square landed on the railings, lining up in the exact order of their arrival.

A patrolman looked at the row of pigeons, muttering to himself under his breath:

"Patrolman, noun. Employed by the Imperial Capital Police Department, wearing a uniform, carrying a baton and whistle, responsible for maintaining street order, preventing and investigating crime, and assisting lost children and drunks..."

As he spoke, he spotted a pickpocket pulling a wallet from a handbag at the street corner and immediately gave chase:

"...Duties include, but are not limited to, apprehension..."

By nine in the morning, the Branch Office had cordoned off the street according to custom.

Barricades stretched from the museum entrance to Bedford Square, bearing signs:

"Routine gas pipe maintenance. Pedestrians please detour."

On the museum steps, an elderly gentleman stood quietly.

Dressed in an old-fashioned formal coat, he looked like a retired diplomat from a distance. The shadows along the street leaned toward him, yet he cast no shadow of his own.

From the far side of Bedford Square, the Virtuoso of the Furnace Fire approached.

For a tradition governing bell-founding, furnaces, and molten iron, one might expect a burly blacksmith. Instead, the figure was a young lady in a pale violet walking dress, carrying a lace parasol and wearing kidskin gloves, looking as if she had just left a garden tea party.

With every step she took, the pavement beneath her scorched and sank.

After she passed, the road restored itself, leaving behind only a trail of small shoe prints.

"Who was in charge of paving this street? It's completely wrong!"

The lady poked the ground with the tip of her parasol, her voice as light as a girl of seventeen.

"Too much sand, too little lime. It will collapse in twenty years. I have no idea how these roadbuilders get paid."

A hired carriage moved down the street; as the driver's shadow fell across a wall, a pair of antlers appeared on his head.

The flags atop the museum fluttered in unison.

A low rushing sound echoed beneath the sewer grates.

Many Virtuosos had gathered to observe; an ascension was a rare occurrence, especially one on this scale.

The Sun and the Furnace Fire had but one demand: having long been stationed in the Imperial Capital, even if Mortimer ascended, he would not be permitted to take a seat within the city.

The lord of the hunt sought the name of that dog, while the note handed over by the Star Map master read: A new star has joined my catalog.