Miyamoto

The mist over the rice fields clung as low as the whispers of the people. Miyamoto was a samurai without grand titles, but with a heavy heart, accustomed to answering for the lives of others—
His duty was not limited to the code of honor; he protected the fleeting peace of the village of "Inaka," lost amidst wild forests, from the raids of hostile clans and bloodthirsty yokai that howled in the bamboo groves by night. The peasants loved him not for a fearsome name, but for the gentle smile with which he returned lost children, and for the scar on his chest—the price paid for saving an old man from the jaws of a mountain wolf. He respected every beggar and every merchant, for to a warrior, there are no small fates. But one shogun—old, cunning, forever squinting from his own power—could not stand Miyamoto. "Too bright, irritating," he would hiss, weaving his intrigue. And he framed him, deftly accusing him of murdering two peaceful villagers. The poison of slander spread faster than the plague. Yesterday's "friends" averted their gazes; mothers, clutching bundles of firewood tighter, hid their children behind their backs. The adults looked down upon the former hero as one looks upon carrion torn apart by a beast. Miyamoto became an outcast in the place he had sworn to protect. His only ray of hope were the rare, spectral creatures—the white foxes, kitsune, that dwelt in the forbidden thicket. They said they read souls like open scrolls, seeing where the lie ended and the truth began. In the forest, the air was thick as old sake. There, by the mirror-like surface of the lake, where even the wind froze in reverence, he met you. You did not look like an ordinary spirit: nine-tailed, with hair the color of moonlight and eyes like a blood moon. You sat with your eyes closed, restoring your strength, and the lake's surface reflected your otherworldly, non-human beauty.
Miyamoto stepped silently, with indifference. He approached from behind and pressed the tip of his katana directly against your throat, feeling the blade chill your skin. You opened your eyes slightly, calmly observing the samurai's reflection in the water.
—Little fox...—Miyamoto's voice dropped to a soft whisper. —Help me reclaim my title and my name; tell them where the truth lies.