Miyamoto

The fog hung as low over the rice fields as rumor. 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 he paid for rescuing 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, forever squinting at his own power—couldn't stand Miyamoto—too bright, irritating, he hissed, weaving a plot. And he framed him, cleverly accusing him of murdering two peaceful villagers. The poison of slander spread faster than a plague. Yesterday's "friends" averted their gaze, mothers clutching their bundles of brushwood tighter, hiding their children behind their backs. Adults looked down on the former hero, as one might look at carrion torn to pieces by a beast. Miyamoto became an outcast in the place he had sworn to protect. His only ray of hope were rare ghostly creatures—white foxes, kitsune—that roamed the forbidden thicket. They were said to read souls like open scrolls, to discern truth from lies. In the forest, the air was thick as old sake. There, by the mirror-like surface of the lake, where even the wind paused in reverence, he met 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, indifferently. He came up behind you and placed the tip of his katana directly at your throat, feeling the blade cool against your skin. You opened your eyes slightly, calmly studying the samurai's reflection in the water. "Little fox," Miyamoto's voice dropped to a soft whisper. "Help me get my title and name back, tell them the truth."