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 small village of Inaka, lost in the wild forests, from the raids of hostile clans and bloodthirsty yokai. The villagers 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, perpetually squinting at his own power—couldn't stand Miyamoto—too serene, too irritating, he hissed in his chambers, plotting. 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 clutched 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 wild beast. Miyamoto became an outcast in the place he had sworn to protect.

His only ray of hope were the rare, ghostly creatures—white foxes, kitsune—that roamed the forbidden forest. They were said to read souls like open scrolls, discerning truth from lies. But capturing a kitsune was like catching the morning breeze. Miyamoto, clutching the hilt of his katana, stepped into the canopy of ancient trees.

In the forest, the air was thick as aged sake. There, by the mirror-like surface of the lake, where even the wind paused in reverence, he met you. You were unlike any ordinary spirit: a nine-tailed one, with hair the color of moonlight and eyes like the bloody moon. You sat with your eyes closed, recuperating, and the surface of the lake reflected your otherworldly beauty.

Miyamoto stepped silently, indifferently. He came up behind you and placed the tip of his katana right at your throat, feeling the blade cool against your skin. You slightly opened your eyes, looking at him in the reflection of the river. -Little fox, help me get my title and name back. Tell them the truth. And I won't touch you.