I’m an Immigration Officer!

The answer came immediately.
“Crane McKenzie. Those guys back there are all my subordinates. We’re hired by the Hallas Trading Company for escort duty. Inside? Salted fish. Twelve barrels. Headed to the volcanic region out west. That clear enough for you?”

Hallas Trading Company.
I rifled through my memory.
Not one of our Kingdom’s merchants…

But the name rang a bell.
Hallas was one of the well-known trading groups dominating the southern coastal regions.
I glanced at the wagon’s tarp—large, worn, but the emblem of an anchor was clearly visible.

My attendant nodded in confirmation.
“The emblem matches. They mainly operate in the South, but they’re known to export specialty goods occasionally.”
“I see.”

At our exchange, Crane chuckled mockingly.
“Suspicious lot, aren’t you? Think we’re lying?”
“My position requires me to be suspicious of everything. I apologize if that offends you.”

But there was still one thing he hadn’t answered.
His origin.
I extended my hand toward him, keeping my tone neutral.

“By the way, which mercenary company are you with? Coming from the South, I expected the Philippa Mercenaries—but I don’t see any insignia.”
“…”
Crane stared at my hand for a moment, frowned, and gave a curt reply.

“Don’t belong to one.”
My eyes narrowed slightly.
“…So you’re a freelance mercenary.”
Freelancers.

There are exactly two groups at the border that demand constant suspicion:
Merchants and mercenaries.
Merchants, driven solely by profit, sometimes “accidentally” slip prohibited items across borders in their shipments.

‘But at least merchants usually follow entry protocols.’
Some try to bribe their way through, but those idiots just end up in a cell.
Mercenaries, though… specifically freelance mercenaries… they’re worse.

‘Mercenaries in companies are manageable at least.’
A company’s reputation is tied to its contracts, so they keep their members on a short leash.
Freelancers? Different story.

As long as they’ve got strength, they think morals and rules are optional.
Their whole philosophy boils down to “If you don’t get caught, it doesn’t matter.”
We’ve arrested dozens, maybe hundreds, over the years.

It’s only natural to develop some very grounded prejudice.
‘Not all of them, sure… but enough to always be cautious.’
Jumping to conclusions was foolish—but so was letting your guard down.

“Is my being a freelancer a problem?” Crane asked, clearly picking up on the shift in my expression.
“It’s not. We don’t restrict entry based on affiliation.”
I kept my voice calm, letting it pass smoothly.

Now for the next step: verifying the cargo.
I withdrew my hand, turning my gaze toward the wagon.
“Fish… of all things.”

Delivering fish to a volcanic wasteland.
An unusual destination, to say the least.
‘Even packed in salt, freshness would be questionable by the time they get there.’

The western region is infamous for its harsh conditions.
Unlike the North, where monsters roam freely, the West suffers from brutal deserts and active volcanoes.
Fish deliveries out there? First I’ve heard of it as an immigration officer.

“They sell fish in the West? Some folks out there probably don’t even know what fish are.”
“Hell if I know. I just haul the stuff.”
A gruff reply—but a fair one.

That kind of detail would be between the client and the fishermen.
I mentally sorted through the information:
Southern coastal merchant group. Overwhelming stench of fish. Escort duty handled by a freelance mercenary.

If he’s not a merchant himself, just escorting goods, the rough appearance makes sense.
Tough-looking people are less likely to get hassled during transport.
And mercenaries tend to keep bandits away.

Identity checks out. Merchant group name matches. Cargo is legal.
That leaves only one step:
Inspecting the wagon and its contents.

“Alright, we’ll proceed with the wagon inspection.”
Crane’s expression shifted—brief flicker of wariness, quickly masked by irritation.
“Make it quick. You gonna pay for spoiled fish if they go bad?”

“It won’t take [N O V E L I G H T] long… hopefully.”
The real issue was the stench.
We weren’t even inside yet, and I already wanted to gag.

It was suffocating out here—inside would be hell.
“Ugh… do I really have to check this?”
I made no effort to hide my reluctance, muttering under my breath.

The attendant answered firmly.
“You have to, Chief Officer. It’s a required inspection.”
Easy for you to say, considering he was very pointedly breathing through his mouth.

“You want to do it instead? You’ll be an inspector one day—you should get used to this.”
“This is your duty, Chief Officer. I’m just an attendant. You should follow proper protocol.”
His voice dropped lower, quiet and resolute.

“No exceptions.”
Funny how they only bring up “no exceptions” when it benefits them.
“I actually have a crippling phobia of fish, you know.”

“I pass out at the sight of fish.”
Couldn’t let me have the last word, could he.
“Didn’t you tell me you were going to have eel with your wife last month?”

“…I said that? When?”
Oh, I remembered.
This guy practically bragged that his wife bought eel and wine to “set the mood” for a second kid.

And now he faints at the sight of fish?
At least lie convincingly if you’re going to try.
He avoided my murderous glare with practiced ease.

“Chief Officer, if you delay any longer, the inspection will fall behind schedule.”
“…"
There was no way out of it.

Throwing a tantrum about fish in front of the applicant? Completely unacceptable.
Reluctantly, I turned my head, calling out to the one person who might save me.
“…Elaine.”

—Flinch.
She was standing a fair distance back, clearly struggling to endure the overwhelming stench.
“Would you like to join me?”

This would be… a good experience for her.
‘When’s a princess ever going to get this close to fish?’
A one-of-a-kind experience, only available at the border.

Good for broadening her horizons.
And definitely not because I didn’t want to suffer alone.
Absolutely not.

“If you come along, I can show you how the inspection process works.”
Full tour, step by step—let’s suffer together.
—Vigorously shaking her head side to side.

Practically generating a breeze with how hard she was rejecting the idea.
Through the gap in her robe, her expression screamed absolute, unwavering disgust.
I don’t think she’s ever refused me this firmly.

“What’s the hold up? You inspecting or not?”
Even the mercenary was getting impatient now.
I let out a long, exhausted sigh.

Time to stop embarrassing myself as an inspector.
“Haa… Let’s get this over with.”
—Clunk, clunk. Flap.

I stepped onto the wagon, plunging into the fish-scented abyss.
Pulling back the tarp revealed a dark, cramped space—and twelve wooden barrels stacked inside.
The wagon was old—the floor split down the middle with a sizeable crack.

—Creak.
The floor groaned ominously the moment I stepped inside.
“Hmph.”

I frowned, staring down at that crack in the wagon floor for a long moment.
“You really planned to cross the whole damn continent in this thing?”
But that wasn’t the real problem here.

“Ugh. Goddamn it.”
Even breathing through my mouth, the stench was drilling straight into my lungs.
“Ugh—! Someone shut the damn windows!”

From inside the Bureau, I could hear the Olfactory Officer gagging through the open window.
For a werewolf with a heightened sense of smell, it probably felt like the odor was right under his nose.
For his sake, I needed to wrap this up quickly.

That’s when Crane shouted.
“Don’t leave it open too long! You’ll ruin the cargo!”
“Ah, yes. I know.”

What the hell is so urgent that he’s rushing me like this?
The attendant at my side muttered under his breath, reaching the limits of his patience with the mercenary’s attitude.
“People like that don’t deserve to get through.”

“Not everyone in this world’s polite. There’s always people like him.”
Probably just worried about the product degrading in the sun and air.
—Clunk.

I carefully cracked open one of the sealed barrels at the far end, revealing fish heads, glistening and crusted in salt, accompanied by that thick, cloying smell.
“Ugh… I really, really don’t want to do this.”
But hiding contraband in the most unpleasant, untouched spots? That’s basic smuggling logic.

And as an inspector, those are the spots I have to check most thoroughly.
What does that mean?
“Alright… here we go.”

It means I have to stick my hand all the way to the bottom myself.
Rolling up my sleeves, I plunged my hand into the slimy, briny mess of fish and salt.
—Squish, squelch.

“Uuuugh…”
“Ughhh…”
That mushy, clammy, sticky sensation crawled up my arm, making my spine shiver.

Even the attendant, who followed me in, visibly grimaced, his face twisted in disgust.
If you’re reacting that badly, imagine how I feel.
After what felt like an eternity, my fingertips brushed the bottom of the barrel.

Only then did I withdraw my arm and nod.
“No irregularities. Clean.”
“Yes, sir.”

And with that, I turned to face the eleven remaining barrels still desperately awaiting my attention.
Eleven more to go.
“We have to… check them all, don’t we?”

“Standard procedure. Cargo inspections must be thorough.”
Damn it all.
 

****
“Barrel twelve, inspection complete.”
My right arm had effectively transformed into a grotesque fusion of salt and fish.

Expression frozen, I climbed down from the wagon and muttered:
“Towel.”
“Here, sir.”

The attendant, waiting with a clean cloth, rushed over.
“Well done, Chief Officer.”
Our eyes met, and I subtly gestured upward with my chin—toward the top of the border wall.

“We’ll be needing a statue.”
“…!”
A signal toward the wall, and a “statue.”

The attendant hesitated for just a second, then nodded in understanding.
“I’ll handle it immediately.”
With that, he slipped past me, heading toward the wall.

Crane, watching the exchange, raised an eyebrow.
“What’s that about? Where’s your guy off to? And what’s with the statue?”
“Nothing serious. I just doubt one towel’s enough.”

I casually wiped at the grotesque substance clinging to my arm as I spoke.
—Swipe, swipe.
No matter how many times I scrubbed, the smell wouldn’t come off.

‘Damn it, the stink’s probably soaked into my uniform now.’
Sure enough, Elaine, who’d been standing about ten paces away, was now at least twenty paces back, rooted to the spot.
“Elaine?”

“…"
No response.
—Step.

I took a step toward her.
—Shuffle.
She took an immediate step back, perfectly matching my movement.

It was as if there was an invisible wall between us.
The stench barrier was impenetrable, and mercilessly effective.
“…Just… stay there. Don’t come any closer.”

—Nod, nod, nod.
Her face lit up with visible relief.
Why does that hurt my feelings so much?

At that moment, Crane clicked his tongue irritably.
“So, we done here? That took forever. You guys always this uptight?”
“Almost finished.”

At least there was one small victory—this really was just fish.
“Everything looks good. The cargo’s clean, the destination’s clear—you’re good to proceed.”
Regardless of his attitude, there was nothing illegal by regulation.

Crane had provided almost all the information we requested.
The cargo was simple foodstuffs, not a restricted item.
Unpleasant personalities like his weren’t uncommon either, so no reason to take it personally.

I offered a faint smile.
“You just need to head inside the Bureau and get your entry permit finalized.”
“Finally. You’re making sense now.”

Crane’s face relaxed, as if he could finally see the finish line.
As he turned, my gaze drifted upward.
The attendant was already stationed atop the distant border wall, subtly waving.

Beside him stood a massive statue—three meters tall, unmoving, sword in hand.
The signal: ready.
I called out to Crane, halting his steps before he reached the Bureau.

“One last thing before you go.”
“Persistent, aren’t you? What now?”
I held his gaze for a moment, then pointed to the cracked floor of his wagon.

“What’s hidden under there?”
Crane’s face froze.