He wasn’t killed by the bomb, but drowned instead. When he woke up, he was in another world: a riot of blossoms and breathtaking beauty. But not everyone can handle a cold beauty, especially when that beauty is a man.
Wherever there are peonies, there are beauties. Wherever there are beauties, there are femme fatales. Wherever there are femme fatales, there is trouble. And wherever there is trouble, stories are born. Whether they’re flower spirits or princesses, if they’re his, no one can take them away; if they’re not, there’s no point in trying to keep them.
Among the peonies, in all their riotous colors, he chooses just one from Mölou.
