I didn’t wait for it to make the first move. That was Hero Rule #2: always strike first, especially when the enemy has six limbs and a vendetta about sad. I dashed forward with my training sword gleaming, sshing upward with a sharp cry. The bde carved a neat arc across its thick, root-like chest.
(-23 physical damage)
Health Points: 377/400 [94.25%]
From behind me, the telltale shimmer of butterfly wings signaled my sparkly companion’s arrival. It floated into battle with the same quiet dignity as someone entering a yoga css five minutes te. With a flick of its wings, it unched a swift, dainty strike that somehow still made a wet thwack noise on impact.
(-5 physical damage)
Health Points: 372/400 [93%]
“Lyra!” I shouted over my shoulder as I dodged a suspiciously fast rake swing. “Tag in any time now!”
Without a word, Lyra stepped forward like a glittering specter of competence. Her bow pulsed with energy, a glow building along the shaft as she drew the string back. When she loosed it, the arrow screamed through the air like it had opinions. It struck the broccoli crown dead center, the impact echoing like a gong in a vegetable cathedral.
(-72 critical damage)
Health Points: 300/400 [75%]
The Vegetalord screamed, a sound like a juicer chewing on a rock. “YOU DARE STRIKE THE BROCCOLI CROWN?!” its voice boomed, leaves rustling like furious banners.
I spun away from its retaliation, rolling behind a cracked headstone. “Is it real broccoli?” I wheezed as I came up to my feet. “Because if so, I’m definitely not eating it. That thing has seen war.”
With a furious grunt, the boss swung a rusty hoe the size of a canoe. It whistled through the air inches from my nose, cnging against marble as sparks erupted into the night. I used the momentum of my dodge to close the distance, my sword fshing again as I delivered another strike with a little battle cry I definitely didn’t copy from an anime.
(-23 physical damage)
Health Points: 275/400 [68.75%]
Right on cue, my butterfly swooped in like a sparkly angel of judgment, flicking its wings once more with all the grace and none of the mercy.
(-5 physical damage)
Health Points: 270/400 [67.5%]
I took a step back, breathing hard, and stared at the health bar. “...Aw, right. Boss fights are hard mode. It’s not even sweating. Do vegetables sweat?”
The fight was chaotic. Arrows zipped past me, embedding themselves in roots and soil. The Vegetalord retaliated with rakes, spade jabs, and something that looked suspiciously like a garden gnome used as a projectile. I dodged, rolled, struck, ducked again. My cloak was covered in dirt and possibly radish juice. Every time I sshed, the butterfly followed like a sparkly ghost with a vendetta.
And through it all, the Vegetalord remained, massive, furious, and oddly majestic, like the final boss of a farming simutor gone rogue. Then it raised its six thick arms to the sky. Its tools glowed with a sickly green light, pulsing with whatever ancient garden energy this thing ran on.
“BEHOLD… THE GARDENING APOCALYPSE!!” it roared, as if that was a normal phrase anyone had ever said.
The wind picked up, swirling leaves and dirt in a vortex of veggie rage. Tombstones cracked. Flowers wilted. Somewhere, a squirrel screamed in existential terror. I looked up at the glowing storm of compost and tools swirling above us and muttered, “This is the most aggressive farm-to-table experience of my life.”
The wind howled around us like a banshee on a caffeine binge, swirling with an unnatural energy as the Vegetalord’s glowing garden tools spun overhead like a doomsday carousel. I squinted through the storm, the jagged edges of gravestones jutting out like teeth in the chaos, while my hair whipped violently across my face, my cloak fpping behind me with the kind of tragic fir only reserved for a veggie-themed opera. My heart raced as the tools whizzed past, each one a reminder of the twisted agricultural nightmare we’d somehow found ourselves in.
“This is it,” I gasped, stumbling backward as the ground trembled beneath the weight of the Vegetalord’s fury. “This is how I die. Buried under a pile of haunted turnips. This is my legacy.”
Lyra, ever the picture of calm amidst the storm, didn’t miss a beat. She dove behind a toppled statue of some saint, though, given the circumstances, I’m pretty sure it was the Patron Saint of Fertilizer.
She took cover with the efficiency of someone who had done this a million times, already pulling her bow into a taut, purposeful line. Her eyes were narrowed, calcuting. Defiant. “You’re not dying to vegetables,” she snapped, voice low but sharp as an arrow. “That’s the dumbest grave inscription I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, so what would you suggest it say?” I shot back, dodging a flying spade. “Here lies Mashiro Shimizu Mikan, taken down by a carrot with six arms and a grudge?!”
Lyra shot me a look, her lips curling slightly at the edges as the Vegetalord’s shrieking continued in the background. “Honestly? That’s a pretty good story. But you’re still not dying here.”
Before I could reply, the Vegetalord roared with fury, a deep, guttural sound that could only be described as unnecessarily dramatic. Its six arms, each clutching a glowing garden tool, swung in perfect, terrifying synchronization. With a violent CRACK, glowing rakes and spectral shovels shot down from the storm, embedding themselves in the earth with explosive force, like nature’s wrath had been weaponized.
I dove to the side as the ground erupted with a thunderous BOOM, a rake smming into the earth inches from me, sending dirt and rock flying in all directions. Another hoe came down with the force of a cannonball, smashing through a gravestone like it was nothing but a poorly-written romance novel.
Even a watering can came crashing down, releasing a holy mist that made the surrounding grass sing. It was the kind of scene you’d expect in a bad dream, but somehow, I had no time to process how surreal it was.
I danced around falling tools, tumbling and leaping between them, trying desperately to avoid becoming a permanent feature of the graveyard ndscaping. “THIS ISN’T EVEN AGRICULTURALLY ACCURATE!” I screamed, as a sickle grazed my shoulder. I ducked and rolled again, narrowly missing a glowing spade that stuck into the ground like a vengeful monument to poorly executed gardening.
The Vegetalord bellowed once more, its leafy beard whipping in the wind as it raised its arms high, ready to strike again. “MY YIELD SHALL BE YOUR DOOM!” it cried, its voice shaking the very earth beneath our feet.
“Oh, come on!” I coughed, narrowly dodging a flying trowel. “That doesn’t even mean anything! Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound right now?”
The Vegetalord didn’t answer. It didn’t need to. Instead, it whipped its arms into a cyclone, the garden tools spinning above its head like the deadly bdes of a maniacal sad spinner. In that moment, I saw my opening, one of the arms had paused mid-swing, just a beat too slow. Maybe it was buffering, maybe it was getting glitchy. Who knew? But there was no time to second-guess it.
I sprinted forward, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I jumped onto a cracked gravestone for height, unching myself at the Vegetalord with a battle cry that sounded vaguely like a war cry mixed with a grocery list.
(-23 physical damage)
Health Points: 247/400 [61.75%]
As I flew through the air, the butterfly appeared beside me fshing into view like we were co-stars in a magical girl show. It swirled gracefully through the air and struck the Vegetalord with the precision of a well-rehearsed attack.
(-5 physical damage)
Health Points: 242/400 [60.5%]
I nded in a roll, using the momentum to get back on my feet. I stood up next to Lyra, panting from the exertion. “We’re doing damage, but I think he’s getting angrier. Like, end-of-season vilin angry. His next move is definitely ‘second-phase boss.’”
“No kidding,” Lyra muttered, her voice dry as she loosed another shot from her bow. The arrow flew like it had something to prove, striking the Vegetalord directly in the chest.
(-100 critical damage)
Health Points: 142/400 [35.5%]
The Vegetalord let out a banshee shriek that seemed to make nearby trees wilt in fear. Its glowing eyes flickered red, then purple, then, somehow an ominous off-beige that felt even more dangerous than all the colors combined. I swear I saw its roots twitch as the ground cracked beneath it. It raised all six of its arms, spinning the tools above its head with a fury that threatened to shred the very air.
I swallowed. “He’s gonna do it again. The gardening apocalypse move.”
“I know,” Lyra said grimly, preparing another enchanted arrow with a steady hand.
“We’ll die,” I said ftly.
“I know,” she answered, her tone devoid of any pretense.
“…But at least we’ll die healthy. I mean, surrounded by vegetables and cardio,” I added, my voice still shaky but trying to keep the absurdity alive.
Lyra sighed deeply, shaking her head in something that was half exasperation, half amusement. She pulled out an enchanted arrow that shimmered like a disco ball, its glow almost blinding in the dark. “Let’s end this before it starts composting reality.”
“Good pn,” I said, straightening up and getting ready for the final round.
