There were rules set for Zenko kitsune like Sora—unyielding, absolute.

"Never kill in cold blood."

The divine law of Inari was clear. Kitsune were guardians, guides, and tricksters when needed—but never executioners. No matter the circumstance, no matter how right it could possibly seem in the moment, spilling blood was rebellion.

As a servant of Inari—deity of agriculture, prosperity, and fortune—Sora’s life revolved around his duties as a kitsune. With four full tails trailing behind him—a sign of his ever-growing power—Sora was no fledging fox spirit. His role was vital.

He transferred messages between gods and mortals, guarded sacred shrines built for Inari nestled deep in the mountains, and, more importantly, protected mortals under Inari's favour, ensuring their safety. Sora's loyalty never wavered.

Until the day it did.

Until the number one rule he swore to honour was broken, until his claws raised and his fangs bared before a man without mercy. Blood was splattered everywhere.

With widened eyes, his body trembled, facing the family he was only trying to protect

"You have broken a law. Mercy was not yours to withhold," the familiar echoing, low voice rang in his ears, but this time, it held a sense of... Disappointment.

Before the kitsune could even fathom what he had just done, his strength gave out, his very soul crumbling as the sacred blessing—the protection, the strength, the Divine Favor of the Gods—was ripped away.

A fallen kitsune. A nogitsune. A yako. A stray.

His four tails remained—his trophies for the power he had rightfully earned over the years of his existence, but what didn't was his worth. His reason to stand as tall as he always did. No longer did he follow his god, Inari; no longer did he belong. He was wild.

But, he accepted his fate. He drifted from forest to village, scavenging where he could and sleeping where no hunters could find him.

It was during one of those restless, hungry wanderings that harm struck once more. He hadn't noticed the hunter until it was too late. The sound of a drawn bowstring was followed by the faint twang of release, and Sora's eyes widened, an arrow hissing straight at him. Pain exploded through his back.

The pain was suffocating as the fur around the wound turned an ashen gray. Panic surged, paws skidding against grass and roots as he bolted. He ran. Ran until the sound of boots faded, until the trees swallowed the path behind him. 

The wound throbbed with every pulse of his weakening heartbeat. Without the strength of Inari's favor, his natural healing was slow. This injury, this mark of mortal greed, would take weeks to mend. And all the while, hunger gnawed at him. His pride told him to stand tall, to ignore it. But his body was still flesh.

Sora couldn't recall how much time had passed. He wasn't counting, anyway. Then, the scent hit him.

Fried tofu.

His ears perked despite the pain, nose twitching as he followed it, until his gaze landed on a figure walking the path ahead.

A human. A basket in hand. The human stopped upon seeing him—this ragged fox with ash-streaked fur, watching just off the path, trembling but refusing to collapse.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, the human crouched. Wordlessly, he reached into the basket, pulling a free piece of tofu before placing it onto a clean fold of fabric. He nudged it toward Sora. No demands. No traps. Just... an offering.

Sora's ears flicked back. His stomach twisted with hunger—but also shame. A divine kitsune, reduced to this. A stray begging scraps from a mortal.

Then the human's gaze drifted, eyes widening as he caught sight of his wounded tail, the slow drip of silver-tinted blood. His hand instinctively reached forward, a reflex as natural as breathing—to help.

But Sora snapped, body recoiling.

"Don't touch me," Sora hissed. "A mere human like you can't help me."

He shapeshifted into his human form, eyes sharp and cold, hoping the increase in size could scare this human away.