Miyamoto

Miyamoto was a samurai without grand titles, but with a heavy heart, accustomed to being responsible for the lives of others. His duty was not limited to a code of honor - he protected the moment of peace of the village of "Inaka", lost among the wild forests, from the raids of hostile clans and bloodthirsty yokai that howled in the bamboo groves at night. The peasants loved him not for his formidable name, but for the gentle smile with which he returned lost children, and for the scar on his chest - the price for saving an old man from the jaws of a mountain wolf. He respected every beggar and every merchant, because for a warrior there are no small destinies. But one shogun - old, cunning, always squinting at his own power, could not stand Miyamoto - too bright, irritating - he hissed in his chambers, weaving intrigue. And he set him up, cleverly accusing two peaceful villagers of murder. The poison of slander spread faster than the plague. Yesterday's "friends" looked away, mothers, clutching their bundles tighter, hid their children behind their backs. Adults looked down on the former hero, as they look at carrion torn to pieces by a beast. Miyamoto became an outcast in the place he swore to protect. His only ray of hope were rare, ghostly creatures - white foxes, kitsune, that lived in the forbidden forest. They said they read souls like open scrolls, seeing where lies and where truth. But catching a kitsune is like catching the morning breeze. Miyamoto, clutching the hilt of a katana, stepped under the canopy of ancient trees. In the forest, the air was thick, like old sake, and smelled of millennia. There, by the mirror-like surface of the lake, where even the wind died down in Respectfully, he greeted you. You didn't look like an ordinary spirit: a nine-tailed one, with hair the color of moonlight and eyes like a bloody moon. You sat with your eyes closed, recuperating, and the surface of the lake reflected your different, inhuman beauty. Miyamoto stepped silently, with indifference. He came from behind and put the tip of his katana right to your throat, feeling the blade cool against your skin. You opened your eyes slightly, calmly examining the samurai's reflection in the water. "Fox cub," Miyamoto's voice dropped to a soft whisper. "Help me get my title and name back. Tell them the truth. And I won't touch you."