Ozma was a good man.
Charged by the Gods to execute their will against Salem, he was fueled by a righteousness that burned ceaselessly. He trained relentlessly, with the singular goal of becoming strong enough to slaughter Salem and bring this farce to an end.
After years, he considered himself fairly competent. He could shred through hordes of Grimm using only his sword and overwhelm endless swarms if he allowed himself to use his magic. Gleefully tearing a path through Salem's creatures, Ozma suddenly heard a cry of distress.
Ozma was a good man.
Instantly changing his trajectory, he made his way toward a small group fleeing the ruins of a devastated village. He killed the Grimm making chase and addressed the group. "Are any of you hurt?" he asked. The group, traumatized by their experience, shook their heads, though some began to cry. It was obvious that the village once comprised more people than the ones who stood before him, and the losses suffered were heavy. "What are your plans for the future?"
They hesitated. They couldn't stay. There were too many memories in the ruins behind them. "I don't know," one of them, a young lady, eventually replied. Hearing this, the group uttered sounds of agreement.
Ozma was a good man.
"Follow me. I will lead you to safety."
—
Time passed, and a legend was born.
Whispers began circulating among travelers and consequently the towns they passed through. An extraordinary town in the middle of nowhere. A respite from the creatures that prowl the night and a shelter from the storm. Beacon, they called it, a shining light in the darkness.
The legends grew, and people came, drawn like moths to a flame. Each was warmly greeted by the leader of the town, a warrior by the name of Ozma. He was magnetic; his charisma was boundless. He spoke, and people invariably listened. They instinctively trusted him, and he repaid that trust in full.
Ozma was a good man.
He directed immigrants to where their skills would be useful or to where they could learn useful skills. In his ever-expanding town, each person needed to play their roles, and they did so without scruples. Under his watch, the harvest flourished. Under his watch, science yielded new wonders. Under his watch, the people of Beacon thrived.
—
Time passed, and the man who called himself Ozma was dying.
Even the champion of the Gods was subject to the passage of time, he mused. It mattered little now. He had done his duty, albeit in an indirect manner. United, these people would be able to fend off any ordinary Grimm attack. The advancements made under his watch ensured that.
As his last moments slipped away, he was mourned by his beloved citizens, as they wept for the man who gave them salvation. That night, when parents tucked their children in bed, the same words danced off of everyone's lips.
Ozma was a good man.
—
Time passed, and a man approached the gates of Beacon.
This man in particular was something of an oddity, as he called himself Ozma. In the time since the birth of the legend, parents refused to name their children Ozma out of reverence for the one true Ozma. He assured them that he was Ozma, and told them secrets only Ozma would know. Surprised, then relieved, the elders of the city were quick to welcome him into the city and hand over the reins. Ozma's second reign began with a loud celebration.
In private, the elders spoke to Ozma of how this was, and he told them of the mission of the Gods, and none were surprised.
Ozma was a good man.
Of course the Gods would choose him to represent them. There could not be a more righteous man to undertake this calling. They left him to enjoy the festivities.
Ozma's second reign continued rather unremarkably, if relentless progress and endless success could be called unremarkable. The people had everything they could ever want, and they rejoiced under Ozma's second reign.
—
Time passed, and Ozma saw much that could be improved in the world.
"The people of Beacon excel under my reign, yet there are still so many people who do live within the borders of this city. Surely it would be righteous to share this success with others," he reasoned with himself. "But how?"
He assembled an envoy of diplomats and equipped them with gifts for the neighboring cities. He gave them a simple message that they would pass on to the leaders of the other cities. "Embrace my rule, and your people will thrive."
They were met with mixed results, which was tantamount to failure in Ozma's eyes.
"The chief was pleased with the gifts you sent, but ultimately refused to submit to another's authority," one diplomat reported.
"The people saw your plentiful gifts and expressed their desire to come to this city at once," another said.
The reports kept coming, but at his core, Ozma was confused.
Ozma was a good man.
He would share his success with others if they would just give him the opportunity. He steeled himself. If they would not accept his generosity, then they would be met with his austerity. He would not accept defiance.
—
Time passed, and no one spoke of the fate of the Defiant.
Officially, that is. Parents cautioned their children to always obey their leader with vague references to a proud city reduced to a barren wasteland. Bards would sing of dragons and desolation, and all understood the underlying message. In their homes and taverns, people feared Ozma, but in public, they showered him with affection and adulation.
Ozma was a good man.
People stayed in the lines Ozma drew for them, but no longer due to the love they gave him. The sun illuminated the city, but could not remove Ozma's shadow. He was the undisputed tyrant of Beacon, and he was not to be defied.
—
Time passed, and the shackles began to chafe.
The reign of Ozma, which had begun centuries ago, had seen nothing but peace since the days of the Defiant. The kingdom of Beacon grew, and generations upon generations bowed their heads to Ozma for fear of losing them. However, time erases much, and people began to believe that the stories of cruelty were merely stories, and grew bold. People had grown tired of obedience, and yearned desperately for freedom.
"No," some brave soul said one day in response to the king's request.
Ozma was a good man.
A good man would have accepted this and continued about his day. Logically, Ozma would have accepted this and gone about his day, but the impudence of this brat. The arrogance. The audacity. It rankled his pride as the founder of a golden age. He drew his sword and struck down the brave, foolish man where he stood.
Defiance returned to the shadows, and in the shadows, it festered and burned. The people were sick of their gilded cage, and a martyr was all they needed. People rallied under his name, and took up arms against the man who called himself King.
—
Time passed, and the queen of the Grimm approached the king of the dead.
Once resplendent, the Kingdom of Beacon lay devastated, ruined by a mad king's rage.
"The Gods gave you too much power it seems. I thought I was to be the one to slaughter all of humanity," one immortal said to the other.
"They left me no choice," he growled back. "They could not understand the weight of eternity, of the burdens I bore for several lifetimes. I gave them comfort. I gave them security. I gave them life! And what do I get in return? Defiance. Disobedience. Scorn. No more. They shall rise against me no more."
"And what of the Gods?"
"What of them? They were fools. If they weren't, they would've chosen a better man as their champion against you. Me? I'm just a pawn in their sick sense of irony."
"I'm glad you finally see reason."
—
Time passed, and nothing happened.