I’m an Immigration Officer!

In the past four years as an immigration officer, the thing I’ve probably done the most is this:

“All right. Next!”
Thud.
I slammed my stamp onto the paperwork crammed with personal details.
A bold red phrase appeared:

[ENTRY APPROVED]
“Thank you! Thank you so much!”
“Yeah, yeah. Have a good time. Move along.”
The woman gave a deep bow, then hurried out the side.

That was the 118th ‘thank you’ I’d heard today. From different people, no less.
My ears are bleeding.
“How many in total now…”

If I’ve done 118 today... times 365... then times 5 years...
Wait, this is off-season. Holidays and festivals would be worse...
Whatever. It’s a lot.

Then my assistant chimed in:
“Next applicant is entering. Last one for today.”
“Finally.”
So there is such a thing as the last one after all.

“One more, and I’m done!”
Just one more — and I can collapse into bed! Have dinner! Breathe!
As I sang a silent hymn to freedom, the door opened and in shuffled a ragged-looking man.

“Please stand here.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Following the assistant’s guidance, he stood in the center of the room. I began my formal line:
“Welcome. I am Nathan Kell, immigration officer of the Entry Management Bureau under the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
The 119th time I’ve said that today.

“Ah—hello, sir! O-officer, sir!”
“Drop the ‘sir,’ please.”
“Y-yes! Officer!”
Stiff posture. Wrong honorifics.
Probably his first time crossing a border. Or just uneducated.

Either way — mental note taken.
I calmly reached for the hourglass and flipped it for the 119th time.
“Please state your full name, country of origin, and reason for entry. You have five minutes.”

The sand began to fall.
Five minutes to freedom.
Five minutes and I’d be done.
Twelve hours of nonstop labor — finally over.

So hurry up.
Who the hell are you.
The man glanced nervously at the hourglass, scratched his head, and began:
“Uh... my name’s Makton. No last name. I’m a farmer from the southern Mahallan Kingdom.”

“I see. And your reason for visiting?”
“Well, uh... I’m here to see my son. Said he’s marrying some noble lady here...”
The assistant started scribbling on the forms.
I glanced down at Makton’s shoes — worn out, mud-caked, almost torn.

His build was solid, skin sun-darkened, fingernails filled with dirt, and his fingers were covered in calluses.
“Farmer? Could be a mercenary.”
Suspicion flared. Plenty of people lie at the border. Why not him?

I slowly reached toward the dagger embedded in the opposite side of my desk.
Makton stared blankly at the gesture, not even flinching.
“Okay, not a fighter.”

If someone doesn’t react to a weapon being drawn, they’re either an idiot… or clueless about combat.
He’s likely the latter.
Besides, Mahallan is the continent’s biggest agricultural region. Tons of farmers there.

And his reason for entry? Makes sense.
His son’s getting married. Who wouldn’t want to meet the bride?
Doesn’t look like he’s lying.

“Mahallan’s a long way. Anyone travel with you?”
“With me? No, no. My wife stayed to tend the crops… Oh! A caravan gave me a lift partway.”
“Remember the name of the caravan?”
“Uh… Kell-something, maybe?”
I blinked.
My family’s trade caravan?

The assistant and I exchanged glances. He nodded slightly.
“Sir, the Kell Caravan was approved earlier today by Inspector Kell. They're importing elven wood carvings.”
“Inspector Kell… figures.”
That’s my father, all right.

Probably pushed them through inspection himself.
Even after four years, he hasn’t changed. I let out a small chuckle.
“If it’s the Kell Caravan, no need to double-check.”

Proper demeanor, valid reason, named my family’s caravan...
Clean. Zero issues.
By now, luggage inspection should be done too. No red flags. All clear.

Only one thing left.
“Just one last question. What’s your son’s name?”
“It—it’s Daniel.”
“Daniel.”
The assistant stood and headed to the bookshelf.

This was it. The finish line.
Tomorrow’s a day off. No work.
Reading my mind, the assistant practically ran — twice his normal speed — and brought me two thick books:
– Entry Records
– Exit Records

Now we just need to confirm Daniel’s name in the entry records... and not in the exit ones.
“D-da-da-da…”
I slowly scanned for names starting with “D.”
Should be easy.

Then—
“Found i—what the hell.”
I cursed without thinking.

Over 600 Daniels in the entry records.
400 in the exit records.
The assistant paled.
“S-sir… don’t tell me we have to go through all of them…?”
“Hmm…”

I turned slowly to the wholesome farmer.
“Uh… which Daniel exactly…?”
So much for five minutes.

It took an hour.
 
****

"D-da-da-daaanieeeeel…"
With our eyes glazed over, locked in a desperate battle against the endless army of “Daniels,” my assistant suddenly leapt to his feet.
“F-Found him! Officer, I found him!”
“What?! Let me see!”
“Here! Daniel number 582!”

Next to the name he pointed at, the entry read:
[Mahallan Kingdom, Earl Ihan’s potato field hill, 24-year-old male, no surname] — Daniel.
Same region as Makton. Entered the country 289 days ago. No surname. No record of exit.

Everything matched.
As soon as we confirmed that this was Makton’s son, both my assistant and I threw away all formality and screamed:
“Hooray! Praise Daniel! Praise the officer!”
“Hooray!”
“Uh… hooray…?”

Makton joined in awkwardly, clearly confused, but still kind enough to cheer along.
Good man.
No time to waste now.
“Entry papers!”
“Right here!”

I grabbed the "Entry Approved" stamp, and the assistant handed me the completed form in the same breath.
I skimmed through it like a man possessed.
Name, origin, reason for entry, local contact, a basic sketch — all perfect.

Tears welled in my assistant’s eyes as he asked, voice trembling with hope:
“Sir, does this mean we can go home now? I can actually have dinner with my wife tonight?”
“You bet your life! This officer personally guarantees it!”
“Huwaaaah!”
I swallowed the rush of emotion and took a deep breath.

No time to celebrate yet — there was one final task left.
As an immigration officer, I must formally welcome the visitor.
“Mr. Makton.”
“Y-yes?”
“You have provided consistent statements and valid information. Your identity has been confirmed.”

His face brightened. I gave him a gentle smile.
“Therefore, this officer finds no grounds to deny entry.”
I raised my right hand.

And slammed the stamp down on the paper.
— Thud.
“Welcome to the Kingdom of Crossroads.”

Time to clock out.
 
****

The Kingdom of Crossroads.
A ridiculous name for a country, honestly.
But considering our geography, there couldn’t be a more accurate one.
We sit at the center of the continent.

Right beneath the massive mountain range that splits the land into four quadrants.
We’re the only country positioned in a valley that lets people safely cross north to south and east to west.
That’s us — the Kingdom of Crossroads.

“Which moron thought it was a good idea to build a country smack in the middle of everyone’s shortcut?”
And so, this nation hasn’t seen a single year of peace in the last decade.
All kinds of races, cultures, and armies come knocking, demanding passage or trade routes.

Trying to go around us means climbing monster-infested cliffs, raider-filled ravines, and bottomless canyons.
In short: insane.
So yeah — everyone has to go through us.

Honestly, it’s a location worth fighting over.
We’re planted right in the heart of the continent.
But the fact that everyone wants it… means no one can have it.
That’s why we became a neutral nation, open to all races, countries, and peoples.

And that’s where we come in.
Immigration Officers.
The first people outsiders meet.

Anyone can come in. Anything can be brought in.
As long as it follows the rules.
But when something breaks those rules — when it threatens our safety or order — only we can stop it.
It’s a heavy, sacred duty, bestowed directly by the royal family.
Only the most capable are entrusted with it.

And I, one of those officers, finally finished stacking my papers and stood from my desk.
“Time to go home, sweet sweet home~
Tonight I dine on eel and wine~”
My assistant even chimed in.
After years of working together, he knew my rhythm by heart.

I filed the last papers, closed the curtains, reached for the doorknob—
“Great job today. Let’s not see each other all weekend.”
“No no, sir, you were the real hero today. Haha. And even if you call me—I'm not coming!”
“Haha! I wasn’t planning on it!”
We shared a laugh. Just one step away from 48 hours of pure legal freedom.

Not even the Foreign Affairs Minister can stop me now — unless he’s the king.
“What should I do tomorrow? Stay in bed all day? Visit the capital? Ahh…”
But just as I turned the handle, the door burst open from the other side.

— BAM!
A young female assistant stood there, panting.
“There you are! Finally!”

Her informal tone made me frown, but her heavy breathing made it clear — she’d run far to deliver an urgent message.
“What’s going on—?”
A bad feeling hit me.

Like if I asked, I’d regret it.
Like... my shift wasn’t over yet.
“Huff, huff… What did you say?”
“Nothing. I’m leaving. Good luck.”

I slipped past her. My assistant, sensing doom, followed silently.
“W-wait! Officer! Officer, sir!”
“Lalalalala. I hear nothing. I see nothing.”
No one’s taking my freedom.
I did my job.
I’m done.

Goodbye, Immigration Office. See you in two days.
“Chief Inspector! It’s urgent!”
“Ugh.”
Chief Inspector.

My official title.
Saying that out loud meant it was official business.
“Damn it.”

I stopped. Turned around.
“State your affiliation. This officer does not know who you are.”
“Apologies! I serve under the Taste Master. But sir — she’s requesting backup. Immediately.”
Another name.

Taste Master.
One of my junior officers.
Please let this be a dream.

I closed my eyes. Opened them.
She was still there.
Bad omens are always right.
“Shit.”

He’s still working? An hour past closing?
Why me? Aren’t we basically strangers outside work hours?
I need an excuse. Anyone else. Think.

“The Smell Master should be free. If you hurry—”
“He left two hours ago.”
“What? Two hours?! That bastard—ahem.”
That little shit.
Right.
It’s a full moon tonight.

No wonder he worked lightning fast — to sneak off an hour early.
Fine. Another one—
“Then maybe the Hearing Master? Or the Touch Master? I’m done for the day, you see…”
“You’re the last one in the building, sir.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I couldn’t help but curse aloud.
She straightened up, startled.
“F-forgive me! I spoke too casually!”

That 500-year-old elf hag. That tentacle-haired freak.
Gone the moment work ended. No reports. Nothing.
I’m the only one ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) left.
If I don’t go... who knows what kind of idiot might waltz in.

And the Taste Master?
She’s only been an officer less than a month. Still green.
Letting her handle something solo? Terrifying.
“Haaah…”

I sighed deeply.
Then turned to my assistant — who now looked like his dreams had been murdered.
“I’m sorry. I promised you.”
“Don’t apologize, sir. The state comes first… sniff… and I even had wineberry jam this morning...”

An officer never works alone. An assistant must follow.
We were both trapped.
I turned to the messenger.

“...Lead the way to the Taste Master.”
If this isn’t something serious,
I swear I’ll lose it.