I’m an Immigration Officer!

“Why? I mean—why?! Why would the Saint join the pilgrimage?! Shouldn’t she be praying quietly at a cathedral somewhere?!”
— Calm yourself, Chief Inspector. That last remark borders on blasphemy.

“It just makes no sense! She’s the literal symbol of the Holy Church! What possessed her to drag a thousand people all the way to the north?!”
— Officially, she’s visiting the Northern Branch of the Church to offer encouragement.
“Then send the Archbishop! Or a Cardinal, at least! Why the Saint herself— AAAAAAAUGH!”

Let’s break this down, step by step.
The Saint is currently in the southern continent.
Makes sense. The Church’s main base is down south.

But now she’s heading north, along with nearly a thousand followers.
And to get there? There’s only one route they must take.
Where else?

The Kingdom of Crossroads, obviously.
And if you want to enter the Kingdom of Crossroads, who’s the first person you meet?
Who else?

Us — the Immigration Officers.
Which means…
We’re the ones who have to process the Saint.

And like hell she’d travel alone.
“There’ll be a holy knight escort, obviously. Priests and monks tagging along. A whole crowd of civilians hoping to witness a miracle. Merchants who smell profit will swarm in…”
My brain started revving like never before.

“Then there’s the food convoys for the whole group. Additional guards for the supply wagons. Medical staff, logistics support…”
Even a conservative estimate puts the real number at way over a thousand.
Easily 1,500. Maybe even 2,000.
In short, that bastard of a Minister is telling us to handle a migration bomb of two thousand people plus the Saint herself.

Current staff at the Southern Border Immigration Office: Me and the Five Senses Team.
That’s five people. For two thousand guests.
“Shouldn’t this be handled by the Foreign Ministry or Intelligence? At least ask for support—!”

— Intelligence is running a covert op in the north, and the Foreign Ministry is neck-deep in negotiations with the eastern nomads. They’re at full deployment.
You’re all that’s left.
“…Ah.”
Why is it that only when shit like this hits, those guys are conveniently “busy”?

The Minister sighed and offered a weary smile.
— Look on the bright side. How many people in their lifetime get to process the Saint?
“Sir, I already get anxiety when a senior officer visits my station.
If His Majesty himself walked into your office, would you welcome him with open arms?”

— I’d resign on the spot.
We shared the same dead expression for a moment.
“…Do they have to come through our country? Seriously?”

— Can’t ask them to climb the mountain range, can we? You know why we’re the Kingdom of Crossroads. This route is the safest and fastest way across the continent.
He wasn’t wrong. Our kingdom exists because of that single, strategically placed mountain pass.
Crossing the continent without passing through us is almost impossible.

So yes — the Saint will pass through here. That much is inevitable.
— We’re the only ones who can handle this, Chief Inspector.
He stared at me, eyes tired but unwavering.

He was clearly already burning himself out just preparing for this.
— I’ve got my hands full with the nomad problem in the east. Now this lands on my lap, too...
Looking at the mountain of teacups and paperwork beside him made me feel… suffocated.

Goddamn it. He’s clearly swamped. I can’t just say no.
I might grumble, but I can’t refuse.
And anyway, the Saint and her party are already en route.
Even if I complain, it’s not like I can stop them.

Whether I like it or not, this will happen.
And we’re the only ones available.
With a long sigh, I spoke, voice quiet and resigned.
“So in the end, it falls to this officer’s unit.”

— Exactly. I’ll owe you for this one.
“And the compensation you promised?”
— Of course. Handle this well, and I’ll guarantee both the incident-free streak and your bonus.

He nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
— Oh, and I’ll count it as 100 extra days.
…Wait. What?

“Excuse me? 100 days?”
— Yep. If the Saint passes through safely, no issues, you go from 97 to 197.
If she gets all the way to the north without incident, that’s 297.
“S-so that means…”

The Minister held up three fingers.
— Three more days, and you’ll hit 300 incident-free days.
Holy crap. This man is serious.

— So? Feeling motivated now?
I straightened up on the spot and saluted.
“I’ll grab the Saint by the back of the neck and toss her into the north by tomorrow!”

— That’s sacrilege. Calm down, soldier.
Whatever. I don’t believe in God anyway.
I believe in Incident-Free Streaks.
If you’re giving me 197… hell, 297? That is my god.
“I’ll do whatever it takes. Just give the order.”

— Your mission’s simple: Nothing must happen on the southern border. Good or bad.
If the Saint gets through the south, that’s a success.
“Just the south, sir? You’re sure?”
— Let the north handle their part. They’ve only got outbound clearance. Way easier °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° on their end.

A fair condition… with triple the reward.
What kind of heavenly boss is this?
What kind of once-in-a-lifetime money printer is this mission?
I had zero reason to say no. Not that I could say no, but still.

“I’ll do my best, sir. You can count on us.”
— Make sure you deliver. You know what happens when an immigration officer screws up.
“Shall I start drafting the bonus request paperwork now?”

He just looked at me like I’d gone completely insane.
Ah. I said the quiet part out loud.
— Don’t get cocky. If something does go wrong, not even I can cover for you.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
— Then I look forward to your report once the pilgrimage begins, Immigration Officer Nathan Kell.
Let’s wrap it here.
“Understood, sir. Safe travels.”

The crystal orb dimmed, signaling the end of the call.
“…Three hundred days…”
Four seconds of silence passed. Then I exploded out of the office, yelling:

“All Five Senses — assemble! We have a special mission! Move it!”
So much for going home early.
 

****
— Snap.
As the crystal went dark, Carton Grayson leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

A long, heavy sigh escaped him — his first break in hours.
“Damn. This workload never ends.”
“Would you like another cup of tea, Minister?”

He didn’t answer. The secretary quietly placed the 25th teacup on his desk.
He gave a subtle nod of thanks, took a sip, then placed the cup down… and muttered:
“Nathan Kell…”

And with the name came the memory—his latest report still echoing in Carton’s head:
— “I’ll grab the Saint by the neck and personally deliver her to the north in a day.”
“Pfft… Hahaha… That lunatic…”

Laughter burst out in the Minister’s office for the first time in weeks.
Who says something like that to a superior?
In a formal report, no less? “Grab the Saint by the neck”?!
He was too stunned to even scold him.

I mean, sure it was just words… but still. He really has no fear, huh?
Actually, for a moment there…
He’d broken into a cold sweat, thinking the guy might actually try it.
There was no hesitation in those wild, blazing eyes.

If Carton had nodded…
He half-expected to get a report a week later saying:
— “The Holy Knights have placed a bounty on my head.”
The laughter drew a worried glance from his secretary.

“Minister? Should I summon the physician?”
“No, no. I’m fine now. Just… one more cup of tea, please.”
Suppressing his chuckles, Carton raised the 26th cup to his lips, then fell into thought again.

If it’s Nathan Kell… maybe he can pull it off.
Nathan Kell.
Second-in-command of the Immigration Office. Southern Border Lead.
He remembered clearly—
a scrawny, awkward young man in a crisp white uniform, saluting stiffly.

— “I—I mean, this officer is Nathan Kell, sir!”
Just four years ago, he’d been nothing special.
A nobody. A newly minted adult.
Son of a merchant. Honor graduate from the Commercial Academy.
No athletic prowess. Average looks. Commoner.

Completely unremarkable. The kind of person who existed only in census records.
He hadn’t even come up on the radar—until that report landed.
— “Minister! Urgent update! A Talent Manifestation has occurred!”

A miracle, against all odds.
Nathan had awakened a Talent.
And not just any Talent—Total Language Comprehension.

He could understand and speak every language in the world.
Just think how many races there are. How many tongues they speak.
To understand and use them all? That’s insane potential.

If he joined Intelligence, he’d crack every code.
If he joined Foreign Affairs, he’d be the ultimate diplomat.
When the news got out, those departments practically fought over him.
“The salary’s three times higher, and the job’s based in the Royal Capital. For a commoner, that’s a dream deal.”

The Foreign Ministry even sent an envoy to Nathan’s family to win him over.
The Intelligence Bureau didn’t hold back either — offering him a viscount title, and even proposing marriage into a baron family if he wished.
Unprecedented conditions.

Something utterly unthinkable for a commoner.
Possibly the first time in the kingdom’s history someone like him received such a glowing love call.
But Nathan’s response shocked everyone.
— I’d like to join the Immigration Office.
— …What?

Even Carton was too stunned to react.
At first, I thought I’d just refuse outright. A Talent Manifestation… for the Immigration Office? That’s pearls before swine.
Sure, the Immigration Bureau wasn’t less important than other ministries.

But that talent? It didn’t fit at all.
A job that involved screening cargo and travelers, operating by strict regulations —
what use was multilingual fluency for that?
There were common languages, interpreters, even pictograms on every wall. Why waste it?

Carton had personally called Nathan in more than once to talk him out of it.
— Your gift shouldn’t go to waste. Let me offer you a role that suits your abilities.
He tried persuasion, logic, offers of high pay and purpose — everything short of dragging him by the collar.

Every time, Nathan gave the same answer:
— I’m sorry, Minister. I’ve made my decision.
Son of a merchant. Refusing money, titles, influence.
Just wanted to serve his country — as an immigration officer.

It made no damn sense.
Why suffer in some borderland hellhole when you could be lounging in the capital?
Carton saw no reason… except one.

— Hailyn Metaharasin…
Current Commissioner of the Immigration Office.
A woman rumored to be the strangest chief inspector in the bureau’s entire history.

Carton vividly remembered that moment.
While other departments buried Nathan under proposals, she simply said:
— I wonder what that boy dreams of. Let me speak with him privately.

That was it.
One short conversation — and Nathan had made up his mind.
— What the hell did you say to him, Commissioner?

Did she plant ideas in his head? Use seduction? Blackmail?
Whatever the method, this cocky little brat chose his path.
And just four years later, at age twenty-three,
he became the youngest Southern Border Chief in history.

Not by royal appointment — but by unanimous vote from his fellow inspectors.
In just one year, he uncovered over 1,500 cases of smuggling and illegal entry,
cutting down nearly half of the black market’s shadow networks.
He even exposed high-ranking corrupt officers in the bureau —
people who’d been taking bribes to protect criminal organizations.

They lost immunity, and were punished.
He also reformed the handling of magical creatures, like spirits and fae —
personally stepping in to translate, and establishing a proper legal framework for their entry.
All this…

Done by a rookie.
At twenty-three.
So maybe his talent wasn’t just language after all.
Maybe it was his merchant upbringing — or some hidden gift no one had ever labeled.

Carton didn’t know for sure.
But thanks to him, the Southern Border had entered a new golden age.
And maybe that’s why, even when faced with something as insane as the Saint’s visit —
Carton wasn’t panicking.

Nathan will handle it.
He always did.
After all, anyone trying to cross the continent had to pass through the Kingdom of Crossroads.

And the first person they met there?
The immigration officer.
As long as that man held the line, Carton believed nothing would spiral out of control.

Well—except for one thing.
Carton’s eyes shifted to the massive map on the wall.
Arrows pointed north from dozens of locations across the continent —
each one from a weapons manufacturing zone.

It had only been ten days since he got word that military supplies were piling up in the north.
And now… the Saint was heading there, too.
— That’s too convenient to be a coincidence.

He glanced at the urgent report from Intelligence, delivered right before his call with Nathan.
[Signs of Evil God Cult reactivation. Further investigation required.]
A hastily scribbled cipher. Brief. Pressing.

Carton’s brow furrowed again.
— I don’t like this…
A pilgrimage from the Saint.
Military buildup in the north.
And now… whispers of the Evil God Cult rising again.

Too many ominous phrases. All at once.
He picked up his pen and started drafting a new directive to Intelligence —
ordering an immediate investigation.
Please. Let this time be just coincidence.

But with nearly twenty years of experience in government…
Carton knew one thing for certain:
There is no such thing as coincidence.

Ever.
 
****

— Let us go hoooooome!
— Down with the oppressive boss who forces us into overtime!
— Down! Down!
— Awooooo! Awooooooooooo!!
Meanwhile, the Five Senses Team’s response to the “special mission” was… passionate.
— HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU PEOPLE?! EVEN I CAN’T GO HOME!

In the middle of the shouting chaos, my aide sat quietly in the corner,
tears streaming down his face as he wrote a letter to his wife:
“Let’s postpone trying for a second child… just for now…”