I’m an Immigration Officer!

Ah yes, Monday. That cursed day of the week.
"Goddamn morning it is, fellow officers."

Growling like someone forced out of a coffin, the Smell Master stumbled in just in time for work.
As a nocturnal werewolf, mornings were already torture.
But Monday morning? That’s hell in fur.
"Yaaawn... Taste Master. How were the weekend vibes? Getting used to immigration duties yet?"
I asked mid-yawn, mostly to fill the silence.

The answer, however, came in the form of a loud battle cry.
"Ha! Werewolves are known for eating raw meat and having an affinity for moonlit metaphors! Especially on full moons—they gather, feast, and howl from the highest peaks!"
"...Taste Master?"

"They also possess highly developed olfaction! Even the faintest scent—"
The Smell Master turned and glared at me as I smirked, watching this circus unfold.
"Chief Inspector, what the hell did you do to her?"

"Oh, nothing major. Just a bit of weekend re-education."
"...Pardon?"
He shivered. The guy literally never feels cold, covered in fur head to toe—
and yet right now he trembled like he’d just walked into a snowstorm in his birthday suit.

"You’re telling me she got re-educated already? She’s only been here a month!"
"She splashed water on a Fire Spirit."
"...Yeah okay. Fair enough."

Even he accepted it immediately.
Still, I figured it was time to snap her out of lecture mode. Can’t have her reciting textbook lines mid-shift.
"Taste Master. That’ll be enough. The training’s over."

"Humans are the most populous race on the continent, known for their adaptability and social skills! They also have high breeding compatibility—"
"Stop."
"The term 'Taste Master' is a southern-border rank based on the five senses—"
Yup. Broken. I broke her.

"Sita, enough!"
"HYAAH!"
She only flinched back to life when I used her name.

Finally, a spark returned to those hollow eyes.
"C-Chief Inspector? Is it test time already? I haven’t finished reading..."
"The training’s over. You're good."

"Really?"
"Yes."
"D-does that mean no retest?! I don’t have to read the entire compendium on continental races again?!"

That question came soaked in fragile hope and layers of distrust.
Well, I did tell her “Just finish this part and you’re free” like... thirty times over the weekend.
She’s right not to trust me.
"Alright, last test. Volume 3, page 24—what’s the race?"

"Quarter-Kraken! Traits of human-Kraken hybrids!"
"Passed. Return to your seat."
At the word passed, she leapt in place.

"FREEDOM! YES! Sita is FREE! I can go home!"
"You are not. It’s work time."
"Whyyy?"

"It’s Monday."
"Uugh..."
The light in her eyes died again.

The Smell Master let out a booming laugh.
"Congrats! New record! I got re-trained after a year, you did it in one month!"
Right. She now officially holds the record for fastest re-education.

Not that it's funny. Especially for you, wolf boy.
"Smell Master. A word, if you will. This officer would like a private conversation."
"Wh-why? What’s this about?!"

‘Why’ is what you say to your drinking buddies, not your superior, you damn furball.
"You really thought this officer wouldn’t notice your early leave last Friday? One whole hour ahead of schedule? Let’s discuss."
"...How’d you know?!"

"Conference room. Now."
Have a nice weekend under the full moon, did you?
I didn’t even get to nap.
He slumped toward the chamber of truth, tail dragging, while the others cackled.

"He’s not a wolf, he’s a mutt."
"That’s speciesist, Hearing Master. But… accurate. Hohoho."
You two ain’t safe either.

"Hearing Master. Touch Master. You’re next."
"What???"
"This officer told you repeatedly not to drink in uniform. Yet Friday night, you two were wasted in the marketplace!"

"Gah!"
Both flinched like whipped puppies.
"Especially you, Hearing Master. I heard you were chugging bottles between two guys like a college freshman."

You’re five hundred years old. Time to grow up, pointy ears.
And you, Touch Master, you’ve got tentacles for hair—not for brains. Use 'em.
They looked just like Smell Master had earlier.

"...How did you know?"
How many elves and tentacle-haired girls wear immigration uniforms? The gossip flew.
"Everyone except Taste Master — to the conference room! Now!"

Might as well discipline all three in one go.
"Fufufu... heehee... re-education... is fun..."
Taste Master giggled darkly in the corner, enjoying every second.

 
****
Re-education had marvelous results.

"Keep moving! No stopping there!"
"This item and this one — where did you say they came from? That doesn’t match your statement!"
"You’ve got two—no, make that one minute. Who are you?! Speak up!"

"According to Immigration Act Article 2, Clause 28, all Tier-3 artifacts must be certified by the National Pension Guild to be allowed across the border—!"
An hour later, I looked around at four hyper-efficient inspectors handling immigration lines like a well-oiled machine.
I nodded, satisfied.
"Yup. Gotta do this more often."

Look at that — Smell Master’s already cleared an entire merchant caravan.
Hearing Master, an elf known for taking things slow, is now grilling her aide like a drill sergeant.
It’s a miracle. Passion like this usually only appears right before department audits.

"At this rate, we might break the daily record for entries processed."
They’re so efficient, not a single stray rat is reaching my desk.
Touch Master even took five applicants at once.
I was quietly admiring my troops when my aide approached, holding a crystal orb.

"Chief Inspector. Weekly report time is approaching."
"Ah, right. It’s Monday."
Almost forgot.

Every Monday, we file a report to the Foreign Ministry.
They need to be updated on border conditions — it's a mandatory task.
Wonder what the Minister will say today.
I casually stood near the “97 Days Without Incident” sign so it’s nice and visible.

"Can they see the no-incident sign clearly?"
"Perfectly."
Ninety-seven days. I bled for that streak.
The Minister better notice.

Just three more days with no issues, and I qualify for the bonus. That is non-negotiable.
I already cleaned up Friday’s mess, so there’s no need to mention it.
Which means the incident-free streak remains intact.
Perfect. All according to plan.

"Begin transmission."
As my aide channeled mana into the crystal orb, it flared to life—
and the image of a gaunt, paper-buried man flickered into view.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…

His bloodshot eyes scanned documents at an inhuman speed, while his quill screeched across the paper without rest.
That scratching noise was the only thing coming through the orb.
Oh great. Looks like the Minister gave up his weekend again. Pulling another all-nighter, I see.
"Ahem! Good morning, Minister."

I coughed deliberately. Only then did he finally look up from his mountain of paperwork.
— Huh? Why's this thing on?
"A pleasure to see you again. This officer, Nathan Kell, reporting f—"

— Hey, secretary! How do I turn this thing off? I’ve got the gloomy face of the Southern Border’s Chief Inspector staring right at me. It’s disturbing.
...That’s not the response I was expecting.
The secretary, equally flustered, dashed over to the orb and reached for the controls.

"Minister! It’s the weekly report! Please don’t turn it off!"
— Weekly report? Is it Monday?
The secretary gave an awkward smile and quietly placed the twenty-fourth cup of tea on his desk.

— Ugh… The doctor told me to stop pulling all-nighters…
"You must be very busy lately, sir. Thank you for your tireless service to the nation."
— Don’t thank me. The only reason we’re in this mess is because our nation sits on the biggest crossroads of the damn continent.

Minister’s clearly at his limit. He’s dropping hot truths without even blinking.
"In that case, I’ll keep it brief. As for last Friday—"
— Oh, yeah. Read it already. Dismissed.

"..."
Wait, what?! That’s it?!
I hadn’t even gotten through the intro!

"Sir, are you serious?"
— If it’s about the Fire Spirit almost torching your office because of the Taste Master, or the other two idiots getting dragged in for public intoxication while hanging off random men, yeah, I know.
This time it was my turn to do the shocked subordinate face.

"...How did you even—?"
— The Margrave of your region, Lord Reyes, contacted me directly. Asked, and I quote: “What the hell is going on down there?” So I checked.
Goddamn it.

This is why I always say—don't do anything that could get reported.
And of all people, it had to reach the freakin’ Margrave.
He sighed, gave me a pitying look, and then glanced behind me.
— Well, well… “97 Days Without Incident”? Only three days away from a bonus, huh? Impressive.

"Yes, sir. Thanks to my diligent subordinates and your wise leadership, peace reigns across our land."
— Oh? My leadership, is it?
His eyes sparkled. A wicked grin cracked across his face through the orb.

— Erase it.
That’s a death sentence.
"S-s-s-sir! This officer handled everything! There were no lasting issues whatsoever!"

— If there weren’t any issues, I wouldn’t have heard about it. I’m already drowning in paperwork—don’t make me regret trusting you. Let’s not waste time.
"But…!"
— But? You gonna talk back to me now?

"N-no! Of course not!"
— Then erase it. Or get your ass to the capital and handwrite a full report. By hand.
What kind of evil-ass choice is that?!

Losing the “no incidents” streak was pure agony.
But taking a trip to the capital to explain myself? As a fourth-year Immigration Officer? Hell no.
We’re already treated like rural bumpkins for being posted out in the sticks.
And if word gets out that I came just to get yelled at? I’ll never hear the end of it.
Only one option left.

I choked back tears, picked up the cloth, and stepped toward the sign.
"...You want it wiped?"
— Squeaky clean. No trace left behind.

Ah, my beautifully hand-chalked '97'... destined never to reach 100.
Just as I touched the number, the Minister spoke again.
— Or… you could do something for me. Handle it well, and I’ll let the Friday incident slide. No reset.

Answer came instantly.
"I’ll do it."
— You don’t even know what it is yet.

"Doesn’t matter. If I can keep my 97 days clean, I’ll take anything."
— You're seriously addicted to that bonus, huh?
"A merchant’s son would call that ‘a compliment,’ sir."

Three more days. Just three.
That bonus is worth three months of pay. I will not lose it.
While the Foreign Ministry enjoys soft chairs in the capital,
we bust our asses on the frontier. I deserve this much.
— Good.

He finally pushed his paperwork aside, clasped his hands, and rested his chin on them.
— About six days ago, the Mahallan Kingdom in the southern continent organized a holy pilgrimage under the Church of the Divine Light. They’re traveling all the way to the north.
Mahallan Kingdom. Right.
That farmer on Friday said it was his homeland.
He mentioned they’re especially devout there.

"A pilgrimage? Haven’t had one of those in a while. Last summer, wasn’t it?"
Pilgrims are rare, but they trickle in from time to time.
Seeking sacred relics, following divine visions, or just chasing faith.

They’re usually peaceful, nonviolent, and cooperative.
The kind of people who’d rather talk than fight.
In other words—our favorite kind of applicants.
And since they travel light, processing takes no time at all. A dream batch.
"How many? Twenty? Thirty?"

The most we’ve handled at once was around fifty. That’s manageable.
— It’s a large group. Around seven hundred.
...Excuse me?!

"...Are we at war? That’s not a pilgrimage, that’s a refugee convoy."
— Specifically, 726 names are already on our list.
And if we factor in people joining along the way, we’re talking close to a thousand. Possibly more.
TWENTY times the usual count.

My brain went fuzzy. This was less like a group of pilgrims and more like holiday season stampede numbers.
Even at max capacity, I barely manage 200 a day.
A thousand all at once?!
Split between the five of us, that’s… 250 per person. Extra.

"Haha… Minister, sir, your jokes are getting out of hand. We’re not that close, you know."
— You want the list Intelligence sent me? It’s right there—giant stack of documents.
So that’s what he’s been writing nonstop since the call started. Makes sense now.

Stay calm. Focus on the streak. Think of the bonus.
"Okay, okay… No big deal. Just need to pull an all-nighter or two. It’s doable—"
— That’s not the issue, Chief Inspector.

Of course not. He wasn’t finished yet.
He ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) held up a single sheet of paper. His expression turned dead serious.
— Do you recognize this woman?

...He had more?!
I looked at the page.
A portrait of a woman with pale blue hair, golden eyes, and a necklace bearing the holy crest.
I knew her.

"Saint Erjena… The Church’s top figure."
— Correct. Glad you know her.
Everyone knows the Saint.

She is the voice of God.
Chosen by the Divine itself.
The Church’s highest prophet, and its most sacred representative.
A figure of absolute power, reverence, and holiness.

Even a non-believer like me knows her name.
But why… why mention her now…?
No. No way.

"Minister."
— Yes.
"Come on. That’s not funny."

You don’t stretch a joke into Act III. That’s just cruel.
But despite my pleading eyes, the bastard went ahead and said it:
— The Saint is part of the pilgrimage.

…Motherf—!!!
My scream echoed through the entire conference room.