The Power of Words (3)
Precisely one minute and thirty seconds before Kaban pushed open the doors of the Immigration Office.
"..."
"..."
"..."
A strange silence hung over the office.
On any ordinary day, no matter how close quitting time crept, entrants would stream in without end, and the babble of overlapping voices would grow so thick and chaotic that your ears would go numb.
But right now, not a single soul stood before any of the Five Senses Officers seated at their stations.
Tick. Tock.
It was so quiet you could pick out the second hand of the wall clock with perfect clarity.
A phenomenon that came around once a year — no, if you were lucky, once every two.
Cooperative entrants. Five Senses Officers with no chance to slack off. Airtight security. And weather with a torrential downpour hammering down.
Only when every single condition aligned did the legendary 'Calm Before Clock-Out' descend upon the office.
And within that stillness, the officers' eyes glittered as they failed utterly to hide their impatience.
If nobody walks in for one more minute, we're free.
Clock-out, booze, clock-out, booze, clock-out, booze!
Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six...
Please don't come, please don't come, please don't come...
The dream of every civil servant in this world: to go home at the end of the day without a single problem.
Even after a terrorist threat notice had come flying in, two whole weeks of nothing was bound to loosen anyone's nerves. The officers, who had long since shuffled the Central Officer's constant warnings to the back of their minds, sat with their bags packed and coats already tucked inside, waiting for nothing but the alarm to ring.
Even the newly posted guards were staring at the clock, faces lit with a quiet, hopeful anticipation.
Tick. Tock.
And the moment the second hand crossed the thirty-second mark —
Creeeeak.
Came, at long last, the sound that would trample every hope in the room.
"Ah."
"Ah."
"Ah."
"Ah."
Short, collective groans burst from everyone's lips. The Smell Officer turned his head with the expression of a man who had just lost his country.
What kind of bastard walks in at this hour?
There stood a large-framed man, his whole body shrouded in a robe caked thick with ash, rooted dumbly at the entrance.
Like a man who had weathered every storm and hardship the world had to offer.
The Smell Officer knew at once.
"Are you here for departure processing?"
Anyone could see it — that was a departing traveler.
"...What?"
But the man tilted his head as if he hadn't heard properly.
Oh dear.
No time to lose.
Once someone had entered, there was no turning them away.
There was no room to hesitate. The Smell Officer snatched up the entry-departure ledger and sprinted to the entrance where the man stood.
"Name, homeland, purposeofdeparture, please!"
"...?"
"Your name! Start with your name, please!"
"...Kaban Vladbich."
"And where are you from!?"
Even with the werewolf practically barking the questions at him from a hand's breadth away, the man calmly readjusted his grip on his spear and answered at a glacial pace.
"From the Skadi Empire in the north, I crossed the west in search of my destiny, and came here."
"So you were born in the north, is that it?"
The Smell Officer scraped a hindpaw against the floor, as though dying of frustration.
"Then your purpose for departure? Where are you headed?"
"I am not departing for anywhere—"
That was when it happened.
RIIING-RIIING-RIIING!!!
The wall clock erupted in a clamorous peal.
"That's clock-out! Rainy days call for sausages and a drink!"
"Whose turn is it for duty tonight?"
"Let's see... Oh dear, it's the Hearing Officer."
"NO!!!"
Chatter burst out all at once, chaotic and overlapping.
"Damn. Too late."
The Smell Officer, who had been frantically pushing the man through departure procedures, snapped the ledger shut and addressed him.
"I'm sorry, but business hours have ended. Night operations begin in two hours, so we'd appreciate it if you returned then."
"No, I—"
"Have a good evening. It's pouring out there, so be sure to bundle up in that coat."
And that was that.
Before Kaban could get a single word of reply out, the Smell Officer shut the door with a brisk farewell.
Creeak. Thud.
Kaban stood there a while, staring blankly at the door now sealed firm before his nose.
The first rejection of his entire life.
Thirty seconds. That was all.
For the man once called the Dragon Hunter, who had driven Mnassil to death's door faster than time itself could, the full measure of his allotted glory had been a mere thirty seconds.
Shaaaaaaa...
As if mocking him, the torrential rain came sheeting down over his head.
"..."
Kaban stood motionless for about ten seconds. Then he opened the door again and stepped back inside the office.
Creeak.
Light and warmth flooded over him once more, and the same familiar voice from before greeted him.
"I'm sorry, but we've closed for the day, so... hm?"
The werewolf, halfway into his coat, tilted his head at the sight of him.
"Kaban Vlad... what was it. Vladbasasi? Why have you come back?"
"..."
Vladbasasi. Kaban's face crumpled.
A violent surge of emotion rose in his throat.
Endure. These people are not my target.
He crushed the feeling down and spoke in a low voice.
"...I did not come here for some trivial reason like that."
"But I just told you — departure processing doesn't start for another two hou—"
"I never said I was leaving!"
"I beg your pardon? You're not here to depart?"
At his outburst, the Smell Officer blinked and asked back, genuinely startled.
"Then why did you come here?"
Finally — at long last — a proper question.
"I..."
Start over from the beginning.
Kaban flung wide his two sodden-soaked arms and roared with all the gravity he could muster.
"I have come to open the Age of Man!"
In an instant, the gazes of the Five Senses Officers collided.
Everyone's expression froze solid. Fingers and eyes exchanged rapid signals — and those signals carried one message and one message only.
The single most dangerous type of visitor the Immigration Office had to guard against.
A nutjob. That was the visitor.
Every so often, one would appear. A drunk who crawled in to spout nonsense, someone who'd corner you to recite their entire life story, or the sort who threw a tantrum demanding favors far beyond your authority.
Those creatures materialized out of nowhere regardless of age, gender, species, culture, or nation.
The rare breed of lunatic to whom every ounce of common sense, etiquette, and procedure was meaningless.
No matter what anyone said or did, they would only regurgitate whatever they'd come to say — the eternal nemesis of civil servants everywhere.
And the very being who had failed to appear even once across two miraculous weeks had to choose now of all moments to show up.
Only then did the Smell Officer actually take a long look at this unwelcome guest, up and down. A battered, scorched robe, and a single spear nearly as tall as the officer himself, fitted with what looked like the claw of some great beast.
"...Ah. A mercenary, were you."
A drunken mercenary.
The highest-difficulty class of nutjob there was.
And whoever received him was legally obliged to see it through to the end.
"Smell Officer. Good luck, sir."
"Hang in there, Blaszek."
"We'll be heading out first, then."
"Son of a..."
The other officers, having realized this was none of their business, filed past with wide, beaming grins.
Oblivious to it all, Kaban pressed on, drunk on his own destiny.
"Heaven itself has guided me to this place. My spear and my armor — here in this place, a dragon—"
"RightthenofcoursepleasehaveseatoverhereI'lltakedownyourstatementmyself."
The Smell Officer answered with a face drained of all patience and a tone more mechanical than a golem, then flipped the entry-departure ledger open again.
"Kaban, Kaban, Kaban..."
His fingertip ran down the column of names. And then, before long —
"...Hm?"
He noticed something off.
"It's not here?"
Neither the given name 'Kaban' nor the surname 'Vladbich' appeared anywhere in the ledger.
How is that possible?
The entry-departure ledgers were synced across every border station within a single day of discrepancy.
"Forgive me, but — what did you say your name was?"
"Kaban Vladbich. I have come to close the age of myth—"
"Yes yes, understood. One moment, please."
Cleanly guillotined, mid-conviction. Kaban's face contorted violently.
Should I just kill him?
If this whelp knew what he truly was, he wouldn't even dream of such insolent treatment.
This werewolf before him would collapse like a wet rag from nothing more than a single thrust of his spear.
But he summoned superhuman patience and held himself in check.
He had come here chasing something far more important than this.
That was when it happened.
Creeak.
The meeting room door opened, and a dark-haired man with a weary face stepped out.
"I'll be heading home... hm? Oh, we still have one guest remaining. Smell Officer, take care of this one and then come inside."
There was something oddly superior about his tone that made quite an impression.
"Ah, Central Officer, sir. Just a moment — could you take a look at this?"
"...I'm off the clock, you know."
"Five seconds, that's all. It's just... something's odd here. This gentleman came for departure processing, but his name isn't in the ledger."
Toward the werewolf who had, entirely of his own accord, once again misread the purpose of Kaban's visit, the man spoke up.
"No, I didn't come here to depar—"
"No name in the entry-departure ledger, I see. That's certainly not a common occurrence."
Sliced clean through again. Kaban swallowed down the irritation boiling up inside him, and his gaze drifted naturally to this man.
The man, in turn, studied him for roughly two seconds.
Their eyes met — his gaze like a night sky of deepest black.
And in that instant —
Vmmmmmm...
The spear wrought from a dragon's claw, and the dragon-scale armor hidden beneath the robe, suddenly began to resonate.
Things that responded to nothing but the power of a dragon were being slowly drawn, magnetized, toward that man.
"...?"
Struck by an experience wholly foreign to him, Kaban found himself gripping his spear white-knuckle tight.
Why... why is this happening?
And then, a heartbeat later, he understood what it meant.
Could it be...!!
Kaban stared at the man, eyes wide with astonishment.
"Log this in a separate record for now, and please return tomorrow morning. It appears the Royal Post had some kind of sync failure. In any case, I'm off."
"W-wait! Hold it right there!"
Thud.
The man strode past the reception desk and stepped over the line painted on the floor marked [STAFF ONLY].
That instant —
SHING!
The guards, who had been glaring resentful daggers at the man single-handedly delaying their clock-out, crossed their spears to bar his way.
"Beyond this point is a restricted area, authorized personnel only! Step back!"
"..."
For the first time in a very long while, murderous intent toward humankind came boiling up inside Kaban.
"...The sole reason your head is still attached to your neck is that I have more interest in that man than in any of you. Move."
Having exercised patience down to the very last dregs, he sent out a chilling warning. At the sight of it, the one called the Central Officer arched an eyebrow.
"Whoa there. Sounds like you've had quite a bit to drink, friend. If you'd cooperate with our instructions, we can process your departure smoothly."
"I AM NOT DEPARTING!!!"
At last, Kaban's patience detonated. He flung back the robe he wore and roared.
"I am the Dragon Hunter, Kaban Vladbich! None shall bar my path!"
And with those words, the dragon-scale armor was revealed, along with the scars carved across his body from countless battles survived.
He flaunted them all, proud as a peacock.
Just as expected, startled and astonished reactions came flying back from every direction.
"A d-dragon hunter?"
"What's wrong with that man's face?"
"That armor... I've never seen a material like it in my life."
At the reactions he had finally been waiting for, Kaban bared a twisted smile.
And then Kaban saw it.
"...Good heavens."
The eyes of the one called the Central Officer — for a single instant, they shook, wide and unmistakable.
Yes. You know.
This was the one.
This was the man who knew about the master of the volcano.
Otherwise, there was no explanation for how his armaments could have reacted.
Unless you yourself can speak a dragon word, there is no other possibility.
He was certain of it.
"I know what you are hiding. Hand it over."
Truly, heaven was guiding him.
Just then, the Central Officer suddenly bellowed.
"TERRORIST!"
"...What?"
Upgraded from departing traveler to terrorist in a single heartbeat, Kaban could only gape and echo the word.
"I'm a what?"
"I am the Dragon Hunter, Kaban Vladbich! None shall bar my path!"
The moment I laid eyes on that armor, I knew.
Those thick blue scales bore a texture astonishingly close to Mnassil's own.
And the man had announced himself a 'Dragon Hunter' with his own mouth, no less.
It's him.
I could be certain of it.
That dreadful burn covering half his face — it had to be a wound Mnassil dealt him.
...I honestly never thought he'd actually come. And like this, right out in the open, no less.
Truthfully, I was a bit flustered. I'd half-expected him to sneak in under cover of night.
But I quickly recovered my composure and set my mind racing.
Think. How do I handle this situation?
Now that the man had declared himself a dragon hunter, it was a foregone conclusion he'd start ranting about dragons at any moment.
Then, for a flash, the Smell Officer's words flickered through my mind.
'This gentleman came for departure processing, but his name isn't in the ledger.'
A name missing from the entry-departure ledger applied in only two cases.
One: born in the Crossline Kingdom and never once left its borders.
Two: entered the country without ever passing through the Immigration Office.
Case one happened now and then — natives did exist, after all.
But judging by the man's accent and the scorch marks on the robe he'd just thrown back, he was unmistakably from the continent's west.
That left case two. And for case two, only a single scenario applied.
Illegal entry.
The very category our office despised with every fiber of its being.
And the usual purpose of those who snuck across the border was, of course...
"TERRORIST!"
Nothing else it could be.
Besides, we had a fake terrorist threat notice on file, produced in collaboration with the Intelligence Department.
"...What?"
Startled, he hurriedly raised his voice.
"How dare you call me a terrorist! I am telling you, that dragon you—"
"TERRORIST!"
Merchant Secret Technique: Bigger Is Better.
In this world, the bigger something was, the better. And that applied to voices too.
The moment he breathes one word about dragons, this operation is finished.
As soon as the people here learned a dragon existed, everything would come to light — the false operation we'd built to stop this man, Mnassil's true identity, even the existence of the egg. Those things I had to bury at any cost.
And in moments like this, there was exactly one method that worked.
Cut him off, and shout louder.
"No, listen — that dragon you're looking for—"
"That scarred face! That armor! Those wounds! All of them match the composite sketch the Intelligence Department provided!"
I pointed my finger straight at him and declared with iron conviction.
"You are a terrorist. There is no other explanation!"
Labeling, a booming voice of absolute certainty, and the authoritative title of Central Officer — a magnificent trinity.
With those three in hand, I could make you into anything I please.
"Damn it all! Fine — then I'll take you in hand and make you answer!"
The dragon slayer, his patience finally run dry, seized his spear in both hands.
"Good heavens — it really was a terrorist, just like the Central Officer said!"
"Signal the external forces! The lunatic actually had the gall to march right up to our front gate!"
The guards' eyes went wide at the sight, and someone slammed the emergency bell.
WEEEEEEEE-OOO!
Immediately, the footsteps of dozens of men came thundering in from all sides.
BANG!
"Central Officer, sir! What's happening!?"
To the commander of the Margrave's cavalry, who came charging through the door in a panic, I said:
"That's him! That's the man!"
"What!? The terrorist!?"
"Correct! One hundred percent!"
"Good heavens — he really did come, just like the warning said!"
By now, the entire world had begun to see him as nothing more than a petty, law-breaking criminal.
Right on schedule.
There is nothing on this earth more unjust than a false accusation. Which is precisely why I was wielding one.
The man called Kaban, driven beyond all frustration, hammered the floor with his spear again and again as he shouted.
"No — no, I say! I am no such pathetic thing! I have come from the west to open the Age of Man — the master of the volcano—"
And every single time he raised his voice to explain himself, I cut him off like a phantom and roared over him.
"A state of emergency is now in effect! All units — arrest that terrorist at once!"
"Goddamn it — just let me finish one sentence!"
Not a chance.
You won't even get the first syllable of 'dragon' out of your mouth before they take you away.