The enchanted arrow crackled in Lyra’s grip like it was born from the very heart of a thunderstorm, charged with divine spite and centuries of pent-up archer sass. The glow of the runes etched into its shaft lit her face in bold, angur shadows, and for a moment, she looked less like a teenage elf girl and more like a myth from some forgotten bald. Golden-eyed and unshakably calm in the face of chaos.

  The swirling tempest of ghostly garden tools raged above, spinning in defiance, but even they faltered as if sensing the final blow was upon them. Her cloak fluttered behind her like it was afraid to interrupt the moment. Even I held my breath.

  Then, as the Vegetalord reared up to shout something vilinous and absurd raising its battered hoe like it was wielding Excalibur made of compost, it bellowed, “YOU CANNOT ESCAPE THE CROPSE!”

  I blinked. My mouth opened, then closed. “…Okay. That pun was illegal. I’m calling the vegetable police.”

  But Lyra didn’t wait for commentary or post-fight dialogue trees. She moved with fluid grace, the kind of muscle memory born from thousands of hours training with a stern grandmother and a collection of blessed weapons. With a breath that felt almost reverent, she released the arrow.

  The shot bzed across the battlefield like a comet, tearing through the storm with the crity of a sunrise. Glitter trailed in its wake, not the tacky kind, but the holy kind that makes you feel like you should probably reconsider your life choices. The arrow hit dead center, right between the broccoli eyes, and exploded into a radiant burst of holy light.

  (-120 holy damage – Enchanted Shot!)

  Health Points: 22/400 [5.5%]

  The impact rang like a cathedral bell, echoing through the tombstones. The Vegetalord staggered back, its eyes wide with leafy disbelief. The swirling garden tools cttered to the ground, shrieking like spooked banshees as they dissolved into mist and compost dust. The spectral watering can released one st hissing sigh before vanishing in a puff of holy steam. Even the rebellious rakes, who had fought valiantly until now, flopped over and refused to continue.

  The boss creature dropped to one vine-covered knee, clutching its chest like it had just remembered it forgot to water the tomatoes. “N-No… the harvest… has not yet… ripened…”

  It was trying for a dramatic final monologue. I wasn’t having it.

  “Okay,” I panted, brushing sweaty bangs from my forehead. “You’ve had your speech. Now it’s my turn.”

  Adrenaline surged through my limbs, humming beneath my skin like a battle hymn. My boots dug into the earth as I sprang forward. My cloak whipped behind me in full protagonist mode, and my sword glinted with a quiet, vengeful glow, as if it, too, had suffered enough from this produce-based nightmare. I pnted one foot on a headstone, pushed off like I was springboarding into the final boss theme, and brought my bde down with every ounce of fury, frustration, and slightly unhinged vegetable-reted trauma I had left.

  (-23 physical damage)

  The Vegetalord froze, its broccoli crown tilting ever so slightly… and then, without fanfare, it disintegrated. A soft burst of green light escaped its body as it crumbled into glowing vegetable matter, lettuce, vines, stalks, and tiny sprouts that sang a gentle lulby as they scattered to the winds. The once-raging graveyard stilled. The wind faded. The clouds parted just enough to let a sliver of moonlight shine down like some divine stage light saying, You did it. You survived the sadpocalypse.

  I stood in the eerie calm, chest heaving, sword still raised like a dramatic theater kid at the end of a school py. “Did… did we just defeat a sentient sad bar?”

  Lyra lowered her bow with a weary sigh, sweat beading her temple. “Yes. Yes, we did. And I’m never eating vegetables again.”

  And then, as if rewarding us for surviving what was easily the strangest fight of my short adventuring career, a glorious notification appeared in front of my eyes, shimmering in satisfying gold:

  [+125 EXP]

  [+40 Weapon EXP]

  [Training Sword has leveled up to Level 2 (EXP 10/250)]

  Physical Attack: (+3) → (+8)

  I stared at it for a long moment before grinning wide enough to hurt. “Okay… That? That was worth it.”

  Lyra flopped down onto a stone bench like her legs had given up. “Speak for yourself. I’m going to be hearing lettuce voices in my sleep.”

  I ughed, the sound echoing across the silent graveyard. “Hey, at least they’ll be singing.”

  She groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

  The adrenaline from the battle hadn’t quite faded yet. My hands were still trembling slightly, half from the intensity of the fight, half from the sheer absurdity of what we’d just survived. Vegetables. Ghost tools. A six-armed broccoli boss with a pun addiction. But now, with the wind calm and the graveyard still, reality returned like a sigh.

  “We should finish the quest,” I said softly, sliding my now-slightly-glowing sword back into my inventory with a shimmer. My cloak settled around me, a little singed at the edges but still dramatic as ever.

  Lyra was already standing again, brushing the dirt and stray carrot leaves from her sleeves. “Yeah. Spirits don’t rest unless the grounds are tended. That was in the quest details, remember?”

  I bent down to pick up a rogue turnip, still faintly glowing with defeated malice, and chucked it into the compost pile with a sigh. “I don’t know, you’re the adventurer. I’m just a freence ghost whisperer with a butterfly sidekick and a growing list of vegetable-reted trauma.”

  Lyra snorted, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’re also level five and just helped defeat a broccoli general with delusions of grandeur. That kind of makes you one of us now.”

  “Great,” I deadpanned. “Do I get a badge? Maybe a complimentary sad spinner?”

  She didn’t dignify that with a response, just handed me a broom made from stitched twigs and gestured at the next patch of haunted soil like we were cleaning up after some supernatural food fight. We worked in a quiet rhythm after that, cleaning, restoring, whispering gentle apologies to weathered names and forgotten dates. The graveyard began to settle, like even the shadows were exhaling.

  The graveyard looked like it had hosted an aggressive farmer’s market ssh weather anomaly. Craters from the garden tools pockmarked the soil. Uprooted headstones leaned like exhausted soldiers. Vines y coiled like spent serpents across mossy paths. We split up, sweeping through the area with practiced care, repositioning toppled stones, sweeping away ghostly residue, and offering a quick prayer at each grave.

  As I gently pced a bundle of scattered daisies back onto a small grave marked only with a worn wooden pque, something shifted in the air.

  Footsteps. Not ours.

  Lyra noticed it too. Her bow was in hand again, not drawn, just… ready. We turned in quiet unison toward the sound.

  At the far end of the graveyard, a figure walked slowly through the mist. Cloaked in dark forest-green, with a hood pulled low and a basket of wildflowers cradled in one arm. Their steps were soft, reverent, like they belonged to this pce in a way we didn’t.

  I approached cautiously, offering a wave. “Hello?”

  The figure stopped, then turned slightly. A soft voice, feminine, older, gentle in a way that made the wind hush around her answered, “Oh… I didn’t expect company at this hour.”

  She stepped closer, revealing a kind face beneath the hood. Her silver hair was braided over one shoulder, and her pale eyes shimmered with some kind of distant sadness.

  Lyra lowered her bow but didn’t rex entirely. “Are you… visiting someone?”

  The woman nodded, gncing toward a moss-covered grave near the stone wall. “My husband,” she said simply. “He was a gardener. He would’ve loved tonight’s chaos. All those vegetables… so dramatic.”

  I blinked. “You… saw that?”

  She smiled faintly. “I felt it. The spirits here stir when strong magic brushes against old earth. Don’t worry, I’m not here to interfere.”

  She knelt by the grave, ying the wildflowers down with slow, practiced grace. Then she looked up at us again, eyes lingering on Lyra first, then settling on me. “You two… you’ve done good work here. The nd feels quieter.”

  Lyra looked a little awkward at the compliment. “It was part of a quest. We’re not… we didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.”

  The woman chuckled gently. “You didn’t. That thing, whatever it was, was a blight. A forgotten echo. You brought bance. That’s more than most.”

  I gnced at the sky. The stars had come out now, twinkling gently above the hilltops. “Who… are you?” I asked softly.

  She rose slowly, brushing her knees. “Just someone who remembers. That’s all.”

  And with that, she turned and walked back into the mist. Her footsteps didn’t echo. The graveyard felt warmer somehow.

  Lyra exhaled. “That… was kind of spooky.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But also kind of comforting?”

  We shared a gnce.