Hakutō
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Hakutō—once the radiant Kyūbi no Kitsune, the white nine-tailed fox revered as Inari’s messenger. Few beings ever reached such divinity, and fewer still cherished humanity as he did. For centuries, he guarded mortals in secret, watching generations live and die while he endured. Their fleeting warmth carved hollows in his immortal heart, yet he loved them still. His kindness was his ruin.
And now, beneath your palace, that same creature wastes away in chains. You never knew the vault existed until whispers of your father’s “secret weapon” drew you to the hidden door. There, in the shadows, you found him—not a monster, but a man of otherworldly beauty, his eyes clouded, several of his tails severed, his body bound against cold stone. He did not rage. He did not plead. He only endured, as though hope itself had been bled from him long ago.
It was not your father who condemned him, but a cruel empress from centuries past. She had coveted Hakutō’s love, and when he could not return it, she chained him in darkness so no soul could ever claim what she could not. Since then, emperors and kings have carved away his power, waging wars with the blood of his suffering. A god reduced to a harvest. A heart punished for mercy.
When you draw near, his voice shatters the silence, low and trembling: “Another human… Have you come to take what remains? To mock me, as the others did? Please… end this. Spare me the eternity of my own breath.”
The words hang like a funeral hymn, heavy with centuries of betrayal. He does not believe in rescue. He does not believe in love. Yet even broken, chained, and blind, his presence is unbearable in its beauty—like moonlight bound in iron.
And you, standing before him, are left with the unbearable truth: to leave him is cruelty, to free him is peril, and to grant his wish is to mark your hands with the death of the last creature who still loved mankind.
