Welcome to the Crossline Kingdom
In my four years as an Immigration Officer, this was probably the thing I'd done more than anything else.
"Very well. Next!"
Thump.
The moment my stamp came down on the densely packed personal information form, the bold words [ENTRY PERMITTED] were pressed into the paper.
"Thank you, thank you so much!"
"Yes, yes. Enjoy your stay. Off you go now."
The woman standing before me gave a quick bow and scurried past me toward the gate.
That was the one hundred and eighteenth 'thank you' I'd heard today. From one hundred and eighteen different people.
My ears are going to bleed.
"How many was that in total, again..."
One hundred eighteen today, so multiply 118 by 365, then by 5 for the years I've been here...
No wait, this is the off-season. If I think about year-end or festival days...
Anyway. A lot. It's a lot.
Just then, my attendant beside me spoke up.
"The next applicant is entering. This is the last one."
"Ahh, finally."
I'd been wondering when this would ever end — but at least the word 'last' still existed in my vocabulary.
One more person, and I'm free!
One more person, and I get to lie in my bed! A warm dinner, and rest!
I was belting out my off-work anthem in my head when the door across the room opened and a gaunt, haggard-looking man shuffled in, hunched and hesitant.
"You may stand here."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Once my attendant's guidance had him planted in the center of the room, I opened my mouth.
"Welcome. This officer is Nathan Kell, an Immigration Officer of the Immigration Administration Bureau, under the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."
That line made one hundred nineteen for the day, too.
"H-hello there! O-officer... sir!"
"I'd appreciate it if you dropped the 'sir.'"
"Y-yes! Officer!"
Excessive stiffness, improper form of address. Either he was crossing a national border for the first time in his life, or he simply hadn't been taught.
I made a mental note of it.
Slowly, I reached out and picked up the hourglass on the desk — then flipped it over for the one hundred nineteenth time.
"Please state your name, your place of origin, and your reason for entry. You will have five minutes."
The sand began to fall.
The final five minutes.
Once these five minutes were up, I was off work. The end of twelve hours of labor without so much as a bathroom break.
So hurry up and answer.
Who are you?
The man glanced nervously at the hourglass, then scratched his head and spoke.
"Uh... my name's Makton, sir. No family name. I'm a farmer from the Mahalan Kingdom, down south, you see."
"I see. And the purpose of your visit?"
"Well, the thing is... I've come to see my boy. He's getting married to a daughter of this kingdom, he says..."
Beside me, my attendant immediately began filling out the paperwork.
I let my eyes slide down to Makton's shoes. Nearly worn through, with dried mud caked all over them.
A sturdy build, skin tanned deep brown by the sun, dirt packed under untrimmed fingernails.
And his fingers were covered head to knuckle in calluses.
Could be a mercenary rather than a farmer.
I was suspicious. People hiding their identities were an eternal constant at the border — no reason this man would be an exception.
Deliberately, I reached for the dagger mounted on the far side of the desk.
But Makton only stared at it blankly. Not a single finger twitched.
At least he's not someone hardened by combat.
If a man showed no reaction to the person in front of him reaching for a weapon, he was either a fool or had never fought a day in his life.
In Makton's case, almost certainly the latter.
Besides, the Mahalan Kingdom was the largest breadbasket on the continent. It stood to reason there'd be plenty of farmers.
Motive for entry checks out, too.
His son was getting married — who wouldn't want to see their daughter-in-law?
He didn't seem to be lying.
"The Mahalan Kingdom is quite a long journey from here. Did you have any travel companions?"
"Companions, you say? No, sir, none. My wife had to stay and tend the crops... Oh! Though a merchant guild did give me a ride in their wagon partway here."
"Do you remember the guild's name?"
"Let me think... it was the Kell... Kell Guild, I believe?"
I blinked despite myself.
I hadn't expected my own family's guild to come up.
My eyes met my attendant's. He gave a small nod.
"The Olfactory Officer cleared the Kell merchant guild for entry this afternoon. Declared purpose: importing carved elfwood figurines."
"The Olfactory Officer, is it."
That's Father for you.
He must have deliberately steered the guild through the Olfactory Officer's inspection — famous for processing entry paperwork at breakneck speed.
Even after four years, some things never changed. A small laugh escaped me.
"Very well. If it's the Kell Guild, there's no need to verify further."
Conduct befitting his claimed identity. Sufficient motive for entry. And among his travel companions, my own family's guild.
Clean across the board. Nothing here that violated the regulations.
His luggage inspection would have finished by now as well. No irregularities reported — nothing on his person, either, then.
Which left exactly one thing.
"One final matter to confirm. What is your son's name?"
"D-Daniel, sir."
"Daniel."
My attendant rose from his seat and headed for the bookshelf behind me.
Confirm this, and it was truly over. Tomorrow was the weekend. I didn't have to come in.
As if he understood my heart, my attendant moved at twice his usual pace, returning with two enormous tomes and laying them before me.
The Entry Registry.
The Exit Registry.
All that remained was to find a record that a Daniel had entered — and no record that he'd left.
"Da, da, da, da..."
I ran my finger slowly down the column of names, hunting for 'Daniel.' A search like this took no time at all. No problem here.
And then, a moment later—
"Found— you have got to be kidding me."
A curse burst out of me before I could stop it.
The Entry Registry listed over six hundred Daniels. The Exit Registry, four hundred.
Despair settled over my attendant's face as he foresaw our future.
"O-Officer... you don't mean we have to check all of them...?"
"Hmmm..."
I lifted my head slowly and turned to the honest-faced farmer.
"So... which Daniel might he be?"
Five minutes, my ass.
It took an hour.
"Da, da, da, Daaaaniel..."
I'd been locked in mortal combat with an endless sea of 'Daniels,' eyes glazed and unfocused, when my attendant suddenly shot to his feet.
"F-Found him! Officer, I found him!"
"What!? Where — let me see!"
"Daniel number five eighty-two, right here!"
Beside the name he pointed to, the entry read:
[Daniel — Male, age 24, of Potato-Field Hill, Hisan Viscounty, Mahalan Kingdom]
Place of origin: identical to Makton's. Entry date: 289 days ago. No family name. No exit record.
Everything matched his testimony.
At last.
The moment my attendant and I laid eyes on the long-lost son of Makton, we threw dignity to the wind and shouted.
"Huzzah! Huzzah for Daniel! Huzzah for the Officer!"
"Huzzah!"
"H-huzzah...?"
Makton, reading the room if nothing else, joined our cheer with spectacular awkwardness. Good man, really.
There was no time left to hesitate.
"Entry paperwork!"
"Here, sir!"
I snatched up the [ENTRY PERMITTED] stamp as my attendant hastily handed over the completed form.
My eyes tore down the page at top speed.
Name, origin, reason for entry, relevant parties, even a rough portrait sketch. Perfect.
Tears of joy streaming down his face, my attendant asked with the earnestness of a dying prayer:
"Officer... can we go home now? Can I have dinner with my wife tonight?"
"You can and you shall. You can and you shall! This officer guarantees it!"
"Hoo-hoo-hoo..."
I pressed down the surging emotion and took a deep breath.
Celebrating like my attendant could wait. I still had one duty left to perform as an Immigration Officer.
To welcome an entrant — as the first face of this kingdom.
"Mister Makton."
"Y-yes, sir!"
"You have given consistent testimony and provided information befitting it, and your identity has thus been verified."
The farmer's face began to brighten. I gave him a smile.
"Accordingly, this officer finds and guarantees that no grounds for restriction apply to your entry."
I raised my right hand.
And brought it down in one clean stroke.
Thump.
"Welcome to the Crossline Kingdom."
Time to go home.
The Crossline Kingdom.
For a nation's name, it sounded downright silly — but given our kingdom's geographic position, no name could have been more fitting.
Dead center of a vast, sprawling continent.
And not just center-ish — the exact middle, sitting directly beneath the colossal mountain range that split the continent into four quarters.
A nation nestled in the only valley through which one could travel freely between east, west, south, and north.
That was the Crossline Kingdom.
What absolute idiot decided to build a country right on top of the road everyone else uses?
Thanks to that genius, this country hadn't known a single decade of peace.
Every race and every people under the sun came rattling through — marching off to war and demanding we open the way, laying down trade routes, everything.
Crossing that treacherous mountain range without passing through us was sheer madness. Monsters, bandits, cliffs with no bottom in sight. Anyone crossing the continent had no choice but to pass through our kingdom.
Honestly, it was a location everyone coveted. Sat smack in the heart of the continent, precise as a pinpoint.
But a place everyone covets means, in the end, a place no one can take.
And so the Crossline Kingdom became a neutral state — a nation where every country, every people, every race could come and go freely, no questions of origin asked.
And this was exactly where we shone.
The Immigration Officers.
The first souls any outsider would ever meet.
Anyone could enter. Anything could be brought in — so long as it followed the rules.
But when something violated those regulations, when it threatened to disturb the peace and order of the nation, only the Officers stood in its way.
That weighty responsibility was an honorable post bestowed directly by the Crown — and a burden only the truly capable could bear.
And I, one of those Officers, was just now tidying my final stack of paperwork and rising from my seat, thinking that at long, long last, I could go home.
"Quittin' time, quittin' time, sweet, sweet quittin' time~."
"Tonight's the night for baby number two, eel and wine with the wife~."
My attendant chimed in over my singing with practiced flair. After years of working together, he could follow my melody without missing a beat.
I slid the remaining documents into the drawer, drew the curtains, and took hold of the door handle.
"Hard work today. Let's not see each other until Monday."
"Oh no, sir, the hard work was all yours. Hahahaha. You couldn't drag me in here with ropes."
"Hahaha. Who'd be dragging anyone?"
His cheerful farewell had me laughing along despite myself.
Just one more door, and I'd have two days of freedom.
Freedom guaranteed by law — now that was a sweet, sweet phrase.
Short of His Majesty the King himself, not even the Foreign Minister could stop me now.
Rest well tonight, and what tomorrow? Maybe a rare lazy day cooped up at home doing absolutely nothing — or maybe a stroll into the capital for a change of pace?
I was savoring these delightful dilemmas, reaching to turn the handle — when the door flung open before my fingers could touch it.
Bang.
A young woman in an attendant's uniform burst through, gasping for air.
"Ah — finally, I found you!"
Her complete disregard for protocol made my brow furrow — but she was heaving so hard for breath that she'd clearly sprinted from far away carrying an urgent report, so I smoothed my expression instead.
"What business could possibly require such—"
In that instant, a terrible premonition flashed through my mind.
The feeling that if I asked, something very bad would happen.
The feeling that... my quitting time was about to be delayed. A feeling so vile it turned my stomach.
"Haah, haah... Yes? What is it?"
"Nothing at all. This officer is going home. Good work today."
I swept past her, quickening my pace. My attendant, catching on, silently fell in behind me.
"W-wait just a moment! Officer! Officer!"
"Aaaaah. Can't hear you. Can't see you."
No one on this earth could steal my freedom. I'd done my job, and done it completely.
Farewell, Immigration Administration. See you in two days.
"Central Officer! I have an important message!"
"Ugh."
The voice that finally pinned my feet to the floor rang out, sharp and clear.
Central Officer.
My official title as an Immigration Officer.
If someone had invoked my formal designation, it meant formal business to match.
Damn it all.
Out of options, I stopped and turned around.
"...First, identify yourself and your posting. This officer does not yet know who you are."
"Oh, sorry! I'm the personal attendant of the Gustatory Officer. Anyway — Central Officer, the Gustatory Officer is requesting your support. She's ordered me to bring you to her immediately, so..."
And there was the second name.
The Gustatory Officer.
The official designation of one of my direct subordinates.
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying this was a dream, and opened them. The Gustatory Officer's attendant had not, in fact, vanished.
Premonitions are never wrong. Never.
Damn it.
No, hold on — quitting time passed a full hour ago, and the Gustatory Officer is still working? Is that woman insane?
More importantly, why is she looking for me? And me specifically, right at the end of my shift? Why?
Because I'm her direct supervisor? So once the work's done, we're strangers, is that it?
I needed an excuse. No — there were plenty of people besides me.
Who was around? Ah, right.
"The Olfactory Officer should be free right now. If you run, you might just make it in time."
I would sacrifice another direct subordinate. Go to him, young one. Go.
"The Olfactory Officer went home two hours ago."
"I'm sorry — two hours? He left before quitting time? What kind of son of a— ahem."
That son of a bitch.
Come to think of it, tonight was a full moon.
No wonder the paperwork had been moving so briskly today — there was a lunatic in our ranks who'd slapped down an unauthorized hour of early leave.
Fine. A different sacrifice, then.
"Then... perhaps the Hearing Officer or the Touch Officer would be better suited. This officer's duties for the day are complete, so—"
"You're the only one still in the building, Central Officer."
"Goddammit."
The curse tore out of me before I could hold it back.
The Gustatory Officer's attendant jumped, then snapped immediately back into a proper stance.
"I-I'm so sorry! That was far too informal of me!"
That damned five-hundred-year-old elf and that tentacle-haired woman had clocked out the second Friday hit, without so much as a farewell report.
There was no escape route left. I was genuinely the last one standing.
If I simply ignored this, who knew what kind of lunatic might waltz through the border.
And the Gustatory Officer was a green rookie who'd held her post for less than a month.
Leaving her to handle it alone — I could barely imagine the disaster that would follow.
"Haah..."
A heavy sigh rolled out of me. No way around it, then.
I turned to my attendant with mournful eyes.
He was already looking back at me with the face of a man whose nation had fallen.
"I'm sorry. This officer did guarantee it, after all."
"No, Officer. State affairs come first. Sniff... and I did have those raspberries for breakfast, too..."
Wherever an Immigration Officer goes, an attendant must follow. Bound by that iron rule, he had no choice but to abandon quitting time alongside me.
With the heart of a man being led to the slaughterhouse, I spoke.
"...Then lead the way to the Gustatory Officer."
Gustatory Officer. Unless this is a catastrophe of historic proportions, I am going to be very angry with you.