Over the past four years as an immigration officer, the thing I’ve probably done the most is this:
“Alright. Next!”
Thud.
As I stamped the documents crammed with personal information, the bold words [ENTRY PERMITTED] appeared.
“Thank you, thank you so much!”
“Yes, yes. Have a good time. Please move along.”
The woman who had been standing in front of me bowed politely and quickly stepped aside.
That “thank you” marked the 118th time I’d heard it today.
And from 118 different people.
My ears might start bleeding.
“How many does that make in total now…?”
If it’s 118 people just today, then multiplying that by 365, and then again by 5…
No, wait—this is the off-season.
If I factor in holidays and festivals…
Anyway, it’s a lot.
Just then, the assistant next to me spoke.
“The next applicant is coming in. This will be the last one for today.”
“Wow, finally.”
I was starting to think this would never end.
But apparently, there is such a thing as ‘the last one.’
‘Just one more and I’m off!’
One more and I can collapse into my bed! I can enjoy a warm dinner and finally rest!
I was singing the song of freedom in my head when the door across the room creaked open, and a scruffy-looking man hesitantly walked in.
“Stand here, please.”
“Y-yes!”
After the assistant guided him to the center of the room, I spoke up.
“Welcome. I am Nathan Kell, immigration officer from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
That line again—for the 119th time today.
“H-hello, sir! S-s-sir Immigration Officer!”
“I’d appreciate it if you left out the ‘sir.'”
“R-right! Officer!”
Too stiff.
And he clearly doesn’t know how to address people properly.
It’s likely his first time crossing the border.
Or maybe he’s just uneducated.
Better keep that in mind.
I slowly reached for the hourglass on my desk and flipped it over for the 119th time.
“Please state your full name, place of origin, and purpose of entry. You have five minutes.”
The sand began to fall.
The final five minutes.
Once this is over, I’m free.
My 12-hour, no-break shift will finally come to an end.
“So hurry up and answer.”
“Who are you?”
The man glanced nervously at the hourglass, scratched his head, and spoke.
“Uh… I’m Macton. I don’t have a surname. I’m a farmer from the southern Kingdom of Mahalan.”
“I see. And what’s the purpose of your visit?”
“Well, I came to… to see my son. He’s marrying a noble lady here, so…”
The assistant beside me immediately began filling out a form.
I glanced down at Macton’s shoes.
They were worn to the point of falling apart, dried mud stuck all over them.
He had a sturdy build, his skin tanned from the sun, and dirt caked under his untrimmed fingernails.
His fingers were thick with calluses.
‘He might not be a farmer. Could be a mercenary.’
I was suspicious.
People trying to hide their true identities are nothing new.
This guy could be one of them.
I reached for the dagger embedded in the desk across from me.
But Macton just stared at it blankly.
He didn’t even flinch.
‘Definitely not someone used to fighting.’
If someone doesn’t react when a weapon is within arm’s reach, they’re either an idiot or completely inexperienced in combat.
Macton seemed to be the latter.
Besides, the Kingdom of Mahalan is the continent’s largest agricultural region. It makes sense there’d be many farmers.
‘And his reason for entry is valid.’
If his son is getting married, of course he’d want to meet his future daughter-in-law.
Doesn’t seem like he’s lying.
“Mahalan’s quite a long way from here. Are you traveling alone?”
“You mean if I came with anyone? No, sir. My wife had to stay behind to tend to the crops. Ah! But some merchant caravan gave me a lift partway here.”
“Do you remember the name of the caravan?”
“Uh, let me think… I think it was the Kell Caravan?”
I blinked involuntarily.
Didn’t expect him to mention my family’s caravan.
I glanced at the assistant.
He gave a small nod.
“This afternoon, Director Kell authorized entry for that caravan. They came to import Elven wood carvings.”
“The Director, huh?”
Typical of my father.
He probably had them go through his own division to speed things up—he’s famous for lightning-fast approvals.
Even after four years, he hasn’t changed.
I let out a small laugh.
“Alright then. If it was the Kell Caravan, I don’t need to double-check.”
His demeanor matches his identity.
His motive for entering is solid.
And his connection to my family’s caravan seals it.
Everything checks out.
Nothing against regulations.
At this point, his luggage inspection should also be done.
Since there’s no report of any issues, I assume nothing suspicious was found.
Now there’s just one thing left.
“One last question. What’s your son’s name?”
“D-Daniel, sir.”
“Daniel.”
The assistant shot up and walked over to the bookshelf behind me.
This is the final step.
Once this is confirmed, I’m really done.
And tomorrow’s the weekend—I don’t even have to come in!
As if he knew how badly I wanted this over with, the assistant returned at double his usual speed with two massive books in his arms.
—Immigration Records.
—Emigration Records.
We just need to confirm that a Daniel entered the country, and that he hasn’t left since.
“Da, da, da…”
I slowly scanned down the list of names with my finger.
Finding “Daniel” should be easy.
And then, a moment later—
“Found i—are you kidding me?”
I swore without thinking.
There were over 600 Daniels in the immigration records.
And over 400 in the emigration ones.
Despair crept onto the assistant’s face as he realized what this meant.
“O-officer… don’t tell me we have to check every single one…?”
“Hmm…”
I slowly turned to the simple country man and asked, “So… do you happen to know your son’s full name?”
So much for five minutes.
It took an hour.
***
“Da, da, da, daaaaah…”
After fighting countless ‘Daniels’ with unfocused, blurry eyes for a long while, the attendant suddenly jumped up from his seat.
“I-I found him! Inspector, I found him!”
“What!? Where? Let me see!”
“Here! It’s the 582nd Daniel!”
Next to the name he pointed at, it said:
[Mahalan Kingdom, Ihan Viscounty territory, from Potato Hill Hill, 24−year−old young male]
[Mahalan Kingdom, Ihan Viscounty territory, from Potato Hill Hill, 24-year-old young male]
[Mahalan Kingdom, Ihan Viscounty territory, from Potato Hill Hill, 24−year−old young male Daniel.]
Same origin as Macton. Date of entry: 289 days ago.
No surname.
No record of departure.
Everything matches the statement.
Finally.
As soon as we found Macton’s son, both the attendant and I threw away all pretense of dignity and shouted.
“Hooray! Hooray for Daniel! Hooray for the inspector!”
“Hooray!”
“H-Hooray…?”
Reading the mood, Macton awkwardly joined the cheer.
He seems like a good person.
There was no more time to hesitate.
“Entry documents!”
“Here they are!”
Snatching up the ‘entry approved’ stamp, the attendant swiftly handed me the completed documents.
I skimmed through them at lightning speed.
Name, origin, purpose of entry, contacts, even a rough portrait. Perfect.
Tears of joy streaming down his face, the attendant asked desperately.
“Inspector, does this mean we can go home? Can I finally have dinner with my wife today?”
“Of course! Absolutely! I guarantee it!”
“Uwaaahhh…”
Suppressing the rising emotions, I took a deep breath.
Rejoicing like the attendant could wait.
I still had one last duty as an inspector.
To greet the entrant as the first face of this kingdom.
“Macton.”
“Y-Yes!”
“You have given consistent testimony and provided matching information. Your identity is confirmed.”
The farmer’s face brightened.
I gave him a smile.
“Therefore, I see no reason to deny your entry.”
I raised my right hand and stamped the document.
-THUMP.
“Welcome to the Kingdom of Crossroads.”
Time to clock out.
***
The Kingdom of Crossroads.
It may sound ridiculous for a nation’s name, but considering our geographical position, it’s the most fitting title.
Right in the heart of the vast continent.
Smack in the middle, just beneath the massive mountain range that divides the land into four parts.
The only country situated in the valley that allows passage between north, south, east, and west of the continent.
That is the Kingdom of Crossroads.
‘What kind of idiot builds a country on a thoroughfare everyone uses?’
Because of that, this country hasn’t known peace for even ten years.
All sorts of races and peoples flood through.
They demand passage to wage war.
They build trade routes…
Crossing the treacherous mountain range instead of passing through here is sheer madness.
There are monsters, bandits, and endless cliffs.
To traverse the continent, one must pass through our kingdom.
Honestly, it’s a position everyone envies.
We sit precisely at the center of the continent.
But that also means no one can have us.
And so, the Kingdom of Crossroads became a neutral nation, open to all countries, races, and tribes without restriction.
And that’s where we shine.
Immigration inspectors.
The first point of contact with outsiders.
Anyone can come in.
Anything can be brought in—as long as it complies with the rules.
But when something violates regulations, or is deemed a threat to national peace and order—
Only we inspectors can stop it.
It’s a solemn duty, directly bestowed by the royal family, and one only the competent can handle.
And as one of those inspectors, I was just finishing my paperwork and standing up—finally thinking I could go home.
“Clock out, clock out, happy clock-out~”
“Tonight’s the night we make a second child, wine and grilled eel night~”
My singing was met with perfect ad-libs from the attendant.
After working together for years, he even follows my melodies now.
I stored the rest of the documents in a drawer, pulled the curtain, and grabbed the doorknob.
“Great work today. Let’s not see each other until after the weekend.”
“No, sir, you’ve worked much harder. Hahaha. I won’t come even if you call.”
“Haha. Who said I would call?”
His pleasant banter made me laugh too.
All I had to do was step past this door, and I’d have two whole days of freedom.
Legally guaranteed freedom—how sweet it sounds.
Unless it’s His Majesty the King himself, even the Minister of Foreign Affairs can’t stop me.
‘Should I just rest tomorrow? Stay home and do nothing? Or should I visit the capital for once?’
Lost in happy thoughts, I turned the doorknob—but the door burst open before I could.
-BANG.
A young female attendant burst in, panting heavily.
“Ah! Finally found you!”
Her informal tone made me frown, but seeing her gasping for breath made me realize she had run a long way to deliver urgent news.
“What’s the matter, coming here in such a rush—”
A bad feeling flashed through me.
Something told me if I asked, I’d regret it.
Something told me… my clock-out was about to be delayed.
“Hah… hah… What was that?”
“It’s nothing. I’m clocking out. Good luck.”
I quickly brushed past her, speeding my steps.
My attendant silently followed, having read the situation.
“W-Wait! Inspector, Inspector!”
“La-la-la~ I can’t hear or see anything~”
No one can take away my freedom.
I’ve done my job.
Farewell, Immigration Office.
See you in two days.
“Middle Secretary! This is urgent!”
“Ugh.”
That voice stopped me cold.
Middle Secretary.
That’s my official title as an immigration inspector.
Using my formal title meant this was official business.
‘Damn it.’
I had no choice but to stop and turn around.
“…State your affiliation first. I don’t know who you are.”
“Sorry! I’m the personal attendant of the Gastronomy Officer. But more importantly, the Gastronomy Officer has requested your assistance. She wants you immediately—”
Another name came out.
Gastronomy Officer.
One of my direct subordinates’ formal titles.
Hoping this was a dream, I shut my eyes tightly—only to find her still standing there when I opened them.
Bad feelings are never wrong.
‘Damn it all.’
‘Wait, it’s already over an hour past closing time and she’s still working? Is she insane?’
‘More importantly, why does she need me? Why now, right before I clocked out?’
‘Because I’m her superior? Aren’t we basically strangers after work?’
I need an excuse.
There’s plenty of others.
‘Who was available?’ Ah, right.
“The Olfactory Officer should be free right now. If you hurry, you might still catch him.”
Sacrifice another subordinate.
Let him handle it.
“He clocked out two hours ago.”
“What? Two hours ago? Before official clock-out time? That son of a—ahem.”
‘That bastard.’
‘Wait, wasn’t there a full moon tonight?’
‘No wonder…’