I was born in a kingdom known for one thing:
liberation. It was the center of our culture, our teachings, our pride.
When I was ten, playing among the trees and wild birds of the forest, I heard Grandma's voice drifting across the breeze:
"Rose! Playtime's over. Bid your friends—human and animals alike farewell. We must begin your lessons."
I didn't feel sad or disappointed.
If anything, I was excited.
Every girl in Oma waited for this moment—the Lessons, the greatest rite of passage. My friends and I whispered about it constantly, even though none of us really understood what happened during them.
We only knew one truth:
No girl came out of the Lessons the same.
They became Ladies in the making, and every girl in Oma dreamed of that title.
Grandma and I walked back to our humble home—a sturdy house of clay and brick with a roof of thick palm and coconut leaves that never let rain through. In Oma, such houses were considered high-class royalty.
Grandma sat me down and handed me a calabash filled with palm wine to whet my appetite while the food bubbled over the fire in our outdoor kitchen.
Then she began.
"Rose, do you know why Queens rule Oma?"
I shook my head, my tongue too busy licking the sweet wine from my lips.
She continued,
"In Oma, there are no Kings… only Generals. They lead our army, the Sons of Oma. They defend the land when needed. But that need is rare. We, the women of Oma—especially the royals like you—have done what armies could not."
She paused to check the food, and she sent me to clean the table. By the time I returned from rinsing the emptied calabash, she had already served boiled tubers with sauces that smelled like heaven itself.
But she didn't let me eat yet.
"Tell me, Rose… do you know what a tyrant is?"
I stared deeply at the steaming food, silently bargaining with the gods that answering correctly would earn me a single bite.
"Is he… a bad person?" I asked.
Grandma smiled—half proud, half amused.
"Yes, Rose. A tyrant is a bad person… but not just anyone. He or she is a ruler who hurts their people, causes unbearable pain. And long ago, the people of Oma swore to free the oppressed from such rulers—by any means necessary.
Do you know how a tyrant is stopped?"
By then, she didn't stop me from grabbing chunks of hot food. She even placed water beside me, waiting for the inevitable choke.
She still expected an answer, so I thought hard.
"Grandma… do they put them to sleep forever?
Like the snakes the boys kill when they fall from the roof?"
Grandma blinked, surprised. How a ten-year-old grasped the idea that closely could only be blamed on the plague of snakes in Oma—and the boys who treated killing them as sport.
None of us had ever been bitten. Even the poisonous serpents ran the moment the children screamed their infamous battle cry:
"Owo!"
To the snakes, it was the sound of public execution.
Grandma finally said,
"The first woman of Oma to put a tyrant to rest was your ancestor, Mawe. She was as strong as she was gentle. Before her, the Sons of Oma fought full wars to liberate kingdoms. Wars that cost Oma too much."
I washed the dishes—hers included—to stretch and prepare myself. But Grandma didn't ask another question. Instead, she launched into the story of Great Mawe.
"Our army was outnumbered. That tyrant's forces were too strong. For the first time in our history, we considered giving up. But Mawe saw a better way.
She surrendered herself to the tyrant, married him, and for a whole year, fed him bad herbs that put him to permanent rest."
My eyes widened.
Marriage?
Bad herbs?
A whole year?
I couldn't decide whether Mawe was brave or terrifying.
"When he died," Grandma continued, "Mawe became the Queen of his vast kingdom. She did not forget her origin, nor her purpose. She allied that entire liberated kingdom with Oma. That friendship remains to this day."
By the time the lesson ended, the sun had already "gone to bed," as Grandma liked to say.
I fought sleep but kept listening, hoping she would ask another question I could win.
As she led me to my mat and covered me, she whispered her final lesson:
"Just like Mawe, you will one day be Queen of Oma. When the time comes to face a tyrant, do not fear. You will never be alone.
The people of Oma have spread far and wide, preparing to aid our Queens in their missions to end tyranny in the world. Rest, Rose. Your day will come… and I know you will not fail."
Those were the last words I ever heard from her.
That night, Grandma died peacefully in her sleep only a few feet from me.
By morning, I was taken to the royal palace. I was told that I, Rose Oma, was the last surviving descendant of Great Mawe—and the next Queen of Oma.
Years of training followed.
Yet nothing stayed with me like Grandma's final words.
And then, as I prepared to slay my first tyrant, a revelation dawned:
Oma had liberated every kingdom on our continent.
So as my crowning day approached, the whispers grew louder:
Would I be the first Queen with no liberated kingdom to my name?
My restless cousin Yuda found a solution.
Across the sea, on the next continent, was a cluster of kingdoms oppressed by one man.
A cluster of kingdoms so large they were called a continent themselves: Babel, the Empire of Men.
And the tyrant who ruled them…
was you, Victor Zefar.
They called you
the immortal one.
the untouchable one.
the unkillable one.
I planned my mission with trusted comrades, but nothing, oh nothing prepared me for Babel.
It was nothing like what Oma expected.
This "Empire of Men" was a glimpse of the future.
Electricity flowing through thin metal to light every home.Buildings towering the sky.
The Tower of Babel itself, where you and your governors met weekly and somehow returned to the ground the same day.
The hot baths.
The servants at my call.
The comfort, the beauty, the strange peace…
It didn't match anything I'd been taught about a tyrant's land.
Why were the people so genuinely happy?
Why did they revere you
not as a ruler, but as a protector?
Your Slayers confused me too:
quiet, disciplined, loyal, and far too few to police such a vast region.
Yet somehow… they did.
I studied you.
Your history.
Your strength.
Your rumored weakness.
You finally interrupted my confession, sounding half bored and half curious:
"Your life story is intriguing and all… but it's getting late.
Can we get to the good part?
What do the gossips say about me?"
I sighed annoyed yet relieved you could still joke, even though I had just admitted I came to Babel to kill you.
"Zefar," I said, "I didn't hear your beginning from gossip. I heard it from you.
Maybe it was the heat of that day… or the near-fatal wound you got saving me from an assassin's arrow… but you told me how it began.
You spoke of the 999 years of pain and toil you endured to bring peace to humanity at the cost of your own soul."
You refused to elaborate afterward, but you had already lit my curiosity.
And your kindness sealed it.
I needed to know who you truly were
a tyrant,
a deceiver,
or perhaps… an angel dressed as the Devil.
So my search began.
The first clues came from your servant, Miss Evi, a pure-hearted girl I could never harm.
From her, I learned the tale Babel whispered about the man called:
Victor Zefar.
King of the Slayers.
Bringer of Peace.
Nightmare of the Wicked.