I’m an Immigration Officer!

The next morning.
“Next!”

At the inspector’s shout, a well-dressed elderly gentleman stepped forward with slow, measured steps.
He took a seat, and across from him, a massive werebeast — nearly two meters tall — nodded politely.
“Good day. This officer is Blaszcek, Olfactory Inspector, Southern Border Immigration Division.”

The hulking figure spoke with a voice far gentler than his size suggested, a dainty pen clutched delicately between clawed fingers.
“What brings you to the Immigration Office today?”
“Departure procedure. Heading out of the country.”

In the Kingdom of Crossroads, immigration control wasn’t just for entry — it applied to exits too.
If someone came in, someone else would eventually go out. Every departure needed to be logged and documented.
Which is why the Immigration Office was always packed with inbound and outbound traffic.
The one silver lining?

Exit procedures were far less strict.
“Then may I ask for your name and your destination?”
The old man smiled pleasantly.

“William Kafka. Heading south. Bit of a journey.”
“William Kafka…”
Blaszcek opened a thick ledger labeled [ENTRY RECORDS] and began scanning the ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) pages with trained precision.

Halfway through, he stopped.
“Found it. Let’s see… Scadian Empire, north. Age 68. Entered a week ago… no companions.”
He gave Kafka a quick side glance, then closed the book with a solid thump.

“Very well. Everything checks out. There are no identity issues under this officer’s assessment.”
“Excellent.”
“…However, one thing does concern me.”
Kafka’s smile faltered for the first time.

The olfactory inspector looked him in the eye, then pointed at a large map pinned to the wall.
“…You sure you’re traveling alone?”
“Hmm?”

“The southern territories have better roads than most border zones, yes… but there’s no guarantee against bandits. Or monsters.”
Kafka followed his gesture to the map. Several red circles were drawn around danger zones in the southern continent.
Blaszcek’s voice dropped, laced with concern.

“If you’d like, we can find you a caravan. There are a few headed south.”
“Ha! Appreciate the kindness. But I’ll be fine.”
Kafka shook his head and flicked his coat open just slightly.

“Used to be a mercenary, you know.”
A well-maintained dagger gleamed at his hip.
“Been looking after myself for decades now. This old body still remembers how.”

And from the looks of it, he wasn’t lying — his physique was lean, sturdy, seasoned.
“…Then there should be no problem.”
Satisfied, Blaszcek finally relaxed and brought down the official seal with a heavy hand.

– THUMP.
Stamped across the form:
[DEPARTURE APPROVED]
“Safe travels, sir. The Kingdom of Crossroads welcomes your return anytime.”

“Much obliged. Although…”
“Next cu— Excuse me?”
Blaszcek stopped mid-call as Kafka lingered in place.

“You all seem a bit... frantic today. Something going on?”
The old man tilted his head, glancing past the inspector into the chaos behind.
And he was right.

The Immigration Office was buzzing like a kicked beehive. Usually, it was all sluggish aides and bored inspectors stamping documents like machines.
But today—
“Chief Inspector! We’ve compiled testimony regarding the refusal-of-entry incident!”
“Excellent. Who’s testifying?”
“Two general entrants who witnessed it firsthand!”
“Very good. Deposit it in the evidence vault.”
“Yes, sir! No exceptions on this border!”

The aides were fired up like soldiers preparing for war.
“Who first flagged the anomaly in the cargo manifest? Was it the Tactile Inspector?”
“Olfactory Inspector did the name check — they disguised the Holy Knights as civilians.”
“Hmm. That suggests deliberate concealment. Add it to the report.”
Even the inspectors looked sharper, hungrier, focused.

And at the center of it all—
“All testimonies go with a blue band! Immigration policy documents get red! Everything else—bring to me!”
A black-eyed young man was orchestrating the entire machine like a field commander.

Under his orders, documents were being rapidly filed into a box labeled [EVIDENCE ARCHIVE].
Kafka chuckled, impressed.
“Now that’s a public agency with some fire. I’ve never seen a government office working this hard.”

“Ah, well… that’s because, um…”
Blaszcek gave a sheepish chuckle and scratched the back of his neck.
“Internal audit season’s coming up. Everyone’s a bit… motivated.”

“Ah, yes. Audits. Nothing like the good ol’ deadline panic. How long will the chaos last?”
“Two or three days, maybe.”
“That so…”

Kafka leaned forward.
And in a whisper, just loud enough for Blaszcek’s ears:
“…This about the pilgrimage group?”

The werebeast froze.
“…”
“Come on. Just between us. When are they getting re-evaluated?”

Still silence.
“People outside are buzzing with rumors. You could at least drop me a hint, yeah?”
Kafka’s violet eyes sparkled with curiosity. He wasn’t letting it go.

After a long pause, a deep rumble came from Blaszcek’s throat.
“…This officer hopes your time in the Kingdom of Crossroads was pleasant.”
And then, louder:

“Next!”
Clear message: get going.
Kafka let out a quiet sigh and rose to his feet, empty-handed.

He walked past the inspector and exited the building.
Down the steps, toward the city gates.
He passed under towering stone effigies lining the outer wall, then slipped into a narrow, empty alleyway nearby.

“…Mm.”
Kafka glanced around.
The alley was quiet.

Too quiet.
“This’ll do.”
The gates were just a few steps away. But Kafka stopped. Took a breath.

And then—
– CRK.
A sickening crunch echoed down the alley.
Like bones bending the wrong way.

“Grrk... khh… guh…!”
– SNAP. GRIND. CRACK.
 

At the same time, his joints twisted at unnatural angles.
His face contorted. Bones warped.
Grotesque. Impossible.
Kafka couldn’t even scream.
He thrashed like a man suffering under a curse — mute and writhing.
And five seconds later—

“Phew… Old bodies are just so damn stiff. Not a fan.”
What stood there now was no elderly gentleman.
It was Shahal, Submaster of the Blackhand.

She casually snapped the last knuckle of her finger back into place and muttered:
“Next time, I’m picking someone younger.”
Changeling.

One of the rarest known races in the world — and also one of the least understood.
Not because people didn’t try, but because they couldn’t.
Their ability to transform into others made them unidentifiable by conventional means.
Once, long ago, they were hunted as monsters.
Now, even in more “civilized” times, revealing their true nature could mean death.
So they hid. Always hid.
Most people today believed Changelings were nothing more than myth.
Fairy tales. Urban legends.

“A creature that can become you by eating three strands of your hair.”
That’s all anyone remembered.
But Shahal?
She was the real deal.
And her ability to become whoever she needed to be had earned her a place at the top of Blackhand.

“And male bodies? Ugh. Way too big. Too much hassle.”
She ran a hand through her pale violet hair and spat something out.
– SPLAT.

Three strands of white hair landed on the cobblestone with a wet slap.
An old man’s hair.
The same hair from the man she’d disposed of during her last assignment — the retired mercenary whose name, William Kafka, was never real to begin with.

A fake name. A fake life. A real corpse.
She’d taken his clothes. His face. His body.
And now, with the exit paperwork stamped and done, he was of no further use.
“He said two to three days, huh…
Then I’ll just finish things before that.”

She casually stripped off her jacket.
Then the shirt. Pants. Shoes. Everything.
When she was down to nothing but her undergarments, the last traces of that man were gone forever.
From a nearby clothesline, she pulled a ragged skirt and a torn top — cheap, filthy, peasant’s rags.

“Actually, this works better. They won’t suspect anything weird in this chaos.”
Dressing swiftly, she retrieved a small vial from her chest pocket.
Inside — three more strands of hair.

Brown. Dusty. Lifeless.
From her next victim.
Without hesitation, she popped them into her mouth.
– CRUNCH. SNAP.

Once again, her entire body began to twist.
“Ghhkk—ahhh...!!”
Five seconds later—

“Haaah…”
The elegant woman with lilac hair was gone.
In her place stood a malnourished beggar woman, hunched and pale, eyes sunken, like she hadn’t eaten in days.

“Time to begin.”
She tucked the discarded dagger into her sleeve.
And then, stumbling, limping, she made her way toward the city gates.

Face twisted in pain, voice cracked with agony, she cried out:
“P-pilgrims…! O holy ones…! Please… spare some mercy…!”
Anyone watching would’ve seen nothing more than a desperate beggar crawling toward the pilgrims.

Unaware that beneath the rags were a dagger—
and a vial of something far worse, gifted by her employer.
 
****

– CRASH!
Glass shattered.
The silence of the tent was ripped apart.
A thrown water bottle hit the ground and exploded into glittering shards, spilling water across the carpeted floor.

Reflected in the spreading puddle—
A woman’s face.
Eyes wide.
Shaking.
Terror-stricken.

“Haaah... haaah...”
Her breath was frantic, trembling — not with conviction, but with confusion.
Her pupils darted. Searching. Failing.
And as the water touched her bare, frozen feet—

“WHY!!!?”
The scream of Saintess Erzena Selaph rang out inside the tent.