“Species and name?” The Beagle customs officer in a blue uniform asked wearily, punctuating his exhaustion with a yawn before reaching for the coffee cup at his side. From the brown stains on his canine teeth, I could easily infer the staggering coffee consumption that must come with this job.

“Gray wolf, Haruo.” This time, it only took about ten minutes of waiting to reach the inspection counter. Compared to the usual wait of at least half an hour, it felt like heaven on earth, especially considering I was in the Central City citizens’ express lane.

I glanced sympathetically at the line for general travelers. Each beast’s face flickered with the mental strain of high-speed calculations, replaying the pivotal life decisions that had led them into their current predicament. The Central City immigration checkpoint was nothing short of torment for both the staff and the travelers.

“With your all-white fur, you look more like an Arctic wolf. Aren’t you a resident of District Zero? Hmm, what’s this?” The customs officer squinted at my passport, scanning it while struggling to read the details on his screen, his heavy eyelids doing their best to interfere.

I had been through this scenario countless times. More often than not, I didn’t even bother correcting the assumption that I was an Arctic wolf. Let them believe what they want—it was far easier than explaining why a gray wolf like me had pure white fur. People tend to cling to the “facts” that preserve their worldview.

Not to mention how many beasts don’t even know gray wolves and Arctic wolves are the same species. Really, Mr. Beagle, we’re kin!

“Oh, so you’re this year’s Beastar recommended by Cherryton Academy? No wonder you seemed familiar. How many years has it been since Cherryton nominated a life animal for Beastar? Ah, young wolf, don’t judge me by my looks—I’m a Cherryton alumnus too!” The Beagle perked up instantly, either rejuvenated by caffeine or just excited. He quickly typed on his keyboard and, before I could respond, handed back my passport with a wave to signal I was free to go.

Nodding slightly in acknowledgment, I took my passport and continued onward. From the long lines behind me came murmurs of complaint from natural animals and excited chatter among life animals. The low growls woven into their tones made it easy to distinguish the two.

It seemed I would have to get used to the occasional perks of fame, the envy they provoked, and the responsibilities that came with such a title.

Cherryton Academy, after all, was a prestigious institution. Its Beastar nominees had the highest success rate of being recognized by the Council as Sublime Beast. Naturally, the alumni list was filled with notable figures.

For many alumni, becoming a stable, well-paid government employee was a practical and popular choice*. But compared to the elite few whose every action could reshape the world, they were ordinary folks at best.

Once past customs and into the main train station, the sheer volume of beasts moving as a single mass revealed its true intensity.

It was like a colossal organism composed of countless distinct individuals—life animals, natural animals; large, medium, small; fur, feathers, scales; claws, webbing, fangs, and horns. Each was unique, yet they merged into one immense living entity.

It breathed and pulsed as if it had a consciousness of its own. Moving within it without being swept away came with a suffocating weight, a sticky heaviness, as though I were a drifting particle carried by an unstoppable tide, unable to choose my direction or pace.

But there were always gaps. As vast and powerful as the collective might seem, it was still a society, a creation of individuals adhering to shared rules. And where there are rules, there are exceptions—moments of chaos, voids that emerge. By observing the patterns, I could slip through these fleeting openings.

Yet no matter how swiftly I navigated the flow, determined to retain my individuality, the immense living entity always seemed to notice me. It recognized the wolf trying futilely to resist it.

The aromas of freshly baked bread from an underground bakery, the ink on newspapers handed out by workers, the inflamed and ulcerated skin of a polar bear away from home without proper care, the acrid smell of oxidizing anti-slip treads on the stairs, the honey-shea butter polish used on horns, the mildew from poorly maintained air conditioning, and the rancid oil reused by cheap eateries targeting commuters—all these mingled with the scents of the tens of thousands of beasts who passed through the station daily.

This overwhelming cocktail of odors was the giant organism’s way of welcoming me. It was a scent only I could recognize, one that spoke to a nostalgia all my own.

Look who’s back. The wolf from afar has finally come home.