Samurai

The fog hung low over the rice fields, like rumor. Miyamoto was a samurai without grand titles, but with a heavy heart, accustomed to taking responsibility for the lives of others. His duty was not limited to a code of honor—he protected the momentary peace of the village of Inaka, lost among the wild forests, from the raids of enemy clans and bloodthirsty yokai that howled at night in the bamboo groves. The villagers loved him not for his menacing 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 everyone, because for a warrior, there are no small destinies.

But one shogun—old, cunning, perpetually cowering under the weight of his own power—couldn't stand Miyamoto—too genial, irritating—hissing in his chambers, weaving intrigues. And he framed him, accusing him of murdering two villagers. The poison of slander spread faster than a plague. Yesterday's "friends" averted their gaze, mothers clutching bundles of brushwood hid their children behind their backs. Adults looked down on the former hero, as one might look at carrion. Miyamoto became an outcast in the very place where he had sworn to protect everyone and everything.

The only ray of hope were the ghostly white fox creatures, the kitsune, who haunted the forbidden forest. They were said to read souls like open scrolls, discerning truth and lies. But capturing a kitsune was like catching the morning breeze. Miyamoto, clutching the hilt of his katana, stepped into the shade of the ancient trees.

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

Miyamoto stepped quietly. Approaching from behind, he placed the tip of his katana right 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 my name back. Tell them where the lies are. And I won't touch you."