The Land of Hot Water, Rose Street.
Rose Street had originally been just a narrow alley, but the people who lived there loved planting roses in their courtyards and by their doors. Even the windowsills were lined with pots of roses in full bloom. When the wind blew, petals drifted along with it, carrying waves of fragrance down the entire street.
Rose stems grew straight, and the thickest could be as wide as a pinky finger. Their sides were covered in tiny thorns.
The deep green leaves were oval, soft and thin, with serrated edges and forked veins.
The blooming flowers resembled shy, alluring young women from the neighborhood, just coming of age and waiting for someone to pluck them.
But because of their hidden thorns, careless tourists often pricked themselves when they touched the flowers, drawing a few bright red drops of blood that fell onto the soil, like the blood shed when a girl lost her virginity.
Ever since the full-scale war between the Land of Lightning and the Land of Fire began, business in the Land of Hot Water had dwindled. The lively scene that used to fill Rose Street, with crowds jostling shoulder to shoulder, had not been seen for a long time.
The couples whispering sweet nothings to each other, then stealing away to secluded places to sing their hearts out when their passions ran high, were a favorite topic of conversation among the local residents.
Rose Street, which had expanded up to the halfway point of the mountain long ago, naturally had plenty of people running hot spring businesses.
Boom!
Suddenly, the whole mountain trembled slightly.
The sound and shaking had come from the backyard of a hot spring inn in the valley.
The owner of the inn was a capable man. He had