I’m an Immigration Officer!

SILENCE.
An ominous stillness settled over the clearing.
Crane, a freelance mercenary and smuggler from the Mahalan Kingdom, exchanged quick glances with his subordinates.

His eyes finally landed on the cracked bottom of the wagon.
Hidden beneath it was a crate containing the merchandise commissioned by their employer.
A specially modified defensive artifact.

Did they catch on?
No. That couldn’t be.
The plan was flawless. Every detail meticulously covered, everything proceeding exactly as intended.

The intel was solid too.
Before departing, there was one thing he had hammered into his crew’s heads.
— Listen carefully. Cross-Line Kingdom has freaks with hyper-enhanced senses. Those bastards run the border inspections. If we fool them, this smuggling job is as good as done.

The Sensory Officers.
Their reputation was already well known among smugglers across the continent.
The Olfactory Officer — a werewolf who had sniffed out hundreds of contraband shipments.

The Hearing Officer — rumored to hear the flap of a bird’s wing beyond the horizon.
The Gustatory Officer — a young girl who could recall the taste of anything that touched her tongue.
The Tactile Officer — not mere hands, but dozens, maybe hundreds of tendrils capable of feeling even the slightest irregularity.

And, to their immense luck, the Sight Officer — dead in an accident, the position still vacant.
Ever since those five had been stationed at the Southern Border of the Cross-Line Kingdom, transcontinental smuggling had practically gone extinct.
Bribes and deals didn’t work on those inspectors.
Not that it had anything to do with me before… but now?

Crane had only dabbled in smuggling within Mahalan Kingdom’s borders.
He never needed to cross the continent to make a living.
But this time was different.

"I need a powerful artifact to hunt a dragon. Three thousand silver upfront. Triple that when you reach the Western Volcanic Region."
The offer was too good to refuse.
Three thousand silver coins — more than I’ve made from all my smuggling jobs combined.

And if they succeeded? Three times that. Nine thousand silver coins.
Enough to outright buy a sizable merchant company.
For a mercenary, greed was the greatest motivator.

If only four Sensory Officers are active, this is doable.
Crane devised a plan.
To trick the most dangerous — the Olfactory Officer — he deliberately packed the wagon with barrels of rotten fish.

— Urgh, close the damn window!
Predictably, the werewolf couldn’t stand the stench.
They’d stuffed the wagon’s floor with padding to muffle sounds, so the Hearing Officer wouldn’t pick up a thing. The Gustatory Officer? She’d just end up tasting rotten fish.

The Tactile Officer was trickier, but by deliberately exposing the cracked floorboards, they planted fear — tamper too much, and the wagon might collapse entirely.
At the end of the day, they’re just bureaucrats. If they damage a traveler’s property through negligence, the fallout is entirely on them.
Nothing scared a public official more than an incident — especially one caused by their own blunder.

That’s why Crane brought in a wagon on the verge of falling apart.
And he’d borrowed the name of a major merchant company to back their cover story.
Even if they got caught forging documents, by then, they’d be long gone past the border.

Fate seemed to be smiling on them too. The influx of travelers today meant only the young Gustatory Officer, that nomad girl, was handling cargo inspections.
The plan is perfect.
And it was going to be executed flawlessly—

If only that man hadn’t shown up right now.
“What’s that hidden underneath your wagon?”
An ordinary man, with no notable presence, no distinct aura — not even a hint of danger.

Lean build, soft frame — clearly never seen combat.
He gave off the clear vibe of someone reluctant to get his hands dirty, like some rookie inspector who barely scraped through training.
And yet, somehow, this man pinpointed the exact location of the hidden contraband.

What the hell is this guy?
No amount of luck could explain that.
Crane, accustomed to working strictly within Mahalan Kingdom, was ignorant of one crucial fact.

The person who handpicked the Sensory Officers, who eradicated every major crime syndicate along the Southern Border—
That same man was now standing in front of him, eyes fixed squarely on Crane.
 

****
Barely two seconds passed.
I watched the mercenaries exchange nervous glances.

And then, the predictable response.
“What the hell are you on about? Hidden what?”
They probably thought I didn’t know. Or maybe they thought they could bluff their way through.

I chuckled at the pathetic attempt.
“I’m sure you know that better than I do.”
“Know what, exactly?”

They were going to deny it to the bitter end.
“Since you’re playing dumb, let me explain what raised suspicion.”
I slung the towel — wiped clean of fish slime — over my shoulder and stepped forward.

“You claimed this was fresh fish, yet the stench is overwhelming.”
Transporting salted fish across the continent without ice or cooling spells? Laughable.
“And you claim affiliation with the Hallas Trading Company, yet you arrive with a single wagon.”

Merchant companies never travel alone.
Trade routes are dangerous.
Anyone traveling solo is practically begging to die — that’s why they group together in convoys of a dozen wagons or more.

That’s literally why they’re called “companies.”
Yet these clowns showed up with one measly wagon.
“The supposed ‘escort’ can’t even produce basic documentation.”

For transcontinental trade, merchant groups always carry entry paperwork and a clear statement of purpose.
It’s Merchant Academy 101 — the most basic procedure every legitimate merchant follows.
When I extended my hand earlier, it wasn’t just for show — I was asking for those documents.

Crane never provided them. It was as if he didn’t even know such procedures existed.
“Your wagon floor’s cracked and barely holding together, yet you overloaded it with cargo?”
On such a long journey, your means of transportation is your lifeline.

Maintaining your horses, reinforcing your wagons — that takes priority over everything.
Even when the Royal Magic Society sends excavation teams, they shield the wagons with layers of defensive spells.
But these idiots showed up with a busted wagon.

And claimed they were crossing the continent.
I scoffed, glaring at Crane.
“I’m not an idiot.”

Their expressions shifted.
From tense… to panicked…
From panic… to hostility.

An oppressive silence settled over the area.
“…Hey now. Don’t you think you’re stretching this a bit?”
Crane started walking toward me again, his ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) voice low and threatening.

“Stop nitpicking. You can’t just accuse someone of smuggling without proof.”
“An inspector’s duty is to question everything. Besides…” I tilted my head, voice laced with sarcasm. “…I never once said ‘smuggling.’ But you’re certainly acting suspicious.”
“Tch… if you wanted a bribe, you could’ve just asked, instead of dancing around it.”

The one thing I hated hearing as an Immigration Officer.
Bribes.
He thought I was just another corrupt inspector looking for pocket money.

“Hah.”
The tension in the clearing skyrocketed.
“Funny how criminals always ask the same thing — ‘got any proof?’”

I spat the words like venom.
“We’ll know once we crack it open. So, shall we?”
“And if there’s nothing there? Who’s paying for the damage to my wagon?”

A sharp retort.
For public officials, nothing’s more terrifying than screwing up.
Especially when unilateral judgment leads to trouble — the fallout could be catastrophic.

“Fine. If there’s no contraband, I’ll personally compensate you with the finest wagon in the South.”
But when you’re sure, you press your advantage.
And I was sure this bastard was smuggling.

All the signs pointed to it.
“Why you little—!”
The mercenary’s rough hand twitched near his waist.

“Ah…!”
Elaine noticed, rushing toward me in alarm.
But before she could get close—

— Grrrrrrrrrrk.
A deep, grinding rumble echoed.
“Huh?”

Atop the distant border wall, a towering figure stirred at the signal from my subordinate.
Then—
The Border Defense Captain, frozen like a statue, leapt from the wall, landing squarely between me and Crane.

— BOOM!
A thunderous impact, accompanied by a fierce gust of wind.
“W-What the hell!?”
“N-No way! That wasn’t a statue? It’s a golem!?”

The mercenaries shouted in panic as the colossal figure straightened.
[Smuggling suspect detected within border limits. Complying with Immigration Bureau’s request.]
Crane’s eyes rose, slowly, following the sheer height of the thing.

“…Holy shit…”
A glowing blue power core pulsed ominously from the golem’s face.
Its massive hands, thick as ancient pillars, gripped an enormous, blunt-edged sword.

As if ready to level the entire area at the slightest provocation.
[Traveler is strongly advised to comply with inspection. Refusal may be considered disruptive behavior within border jurisdiction.]
“A golem?!”
“Woah, it’s the border defense unit!”

The sudden mobilization of the Defense Captain drew attention from the other travelers nearby.
“Tch…!”
Crane, visibly shaken, called out to me in a hushed, desperate voice.

“H-Hey… Inspector… there’s been a misunderstanding here—”
I cut him off coldly.
“I’ll ask one last time.”

I ground the words out, every syllable sharp.
“What’s hidden under your wagon floor?”