Toast and Terrence pressed onward, their steps muffled by the stillness of the dungeon. The earlier encounter with the Harvester lingered in their minds, but they had survived, and Toast was determined not to let his guard down. The air was thick with humidity and the faint scent of decay, and the walls narrowed until they had to walk single file through a jagged corridor.

Terrence, ever the daredevil, moved ahead, casting glances over his shoulder. "Think the Harvester’s done with us, or are we just getting started?" he asked, half-joking, though there was an edge of nervousness in his voice.

"Let’s hope he doesn’t like repeat customers," Toast muttered, eyes scanning the ground. "This place has more than enough traps without his help."

As if on cue, Toast’s hoof pressed down on something strange—a thick, sinewy vine, yellow flowers entwined along its length. His eyes widened. Soul Vines. A warning came too late from his mouth.

"Terrence—!"

Before he could finish, Terrence stumbled over one of the vines. The ground shuddered beneath them and the crop pulsed with an eerie light. A sharp click echoed through the corridor, and in an instant, flames erupted from vents in the floor. The inferno shot up intermittently, cutting off their path forward.

"Great! Another welcoming committee," Terrence shouted, jerking back just in time to avoid a jet of flame. He laughed despite the danger, the challenge awakening something reckless in him. "We’ve gotta get to the other side. Got any tricks left in that bag of yours, Toast?"

Toast’s heart pounded as he took in the scene. The flames leapt up in unpredictable bursts, their pattern erratic. He studied the timing, counting the seconds between each blast of fire.

"Don’t try to rush it," Toast said, locking eyes with Terrence. "Watch for the rhythm. There’s always a pattern, no matter how chaotic it looks."

Terrence smirked, unfazed. "Lead the way, genius."

Toast took a deep breath, focusing on the intervals. His hooves moved deliberately, timing each step with the gaps between the flames. He ducked low as a vent hissed nearby, the fire narrowly missing him. He could feel the heat, but his calculated pace kept him just ahead of the danger.

"Now!" he shouted to Terrence, who followed with a more agile, if somewhat reckless, grace. Toast moved carefully but confidently, his mind working in overdrive to track each flame’s rise and fall. When the floor jolted under him again, he adjusted his route mid-step, hopping onto a small outcropping on the wall, avoiding a particularly nasty burst of fire.

Terrence, ever daring, took a more direct approach, leaping from spot to spot as if he were in a race. "You should really try jumping, Toast! It’s much faster."

Toast scowled. "Faster doesn’t mean safer."

But they made it across, one burst of flame away from being caught. Once they were clear, Toast exhaled a long breath. His eyes fell on the vine again, and he crouched down to examine it. The flowers glowed faintly in the dim light of the corridor, their yellow petals eerily bright against the dark stone.

"These vines…" Toast muttered. "They’re connected to the Harvester. He’s still watching us."

Terrence, breathing hard from the exertion, looked down at the vine with narrowed eyes. "Well, I don’t like being watched. Let’s keep moving."

They climbed upward through a narrow tunnel, the ground beneath them giving way to rocky terrain. After a grueling ascent, they found themselves on a ledge overlooking a vast valley, one that was eerily silent in contrast to the chaotic flames below.

Toast squinted into the distance. What he saw made him stop short.

The valley below was dotted with patches of yellow flowers, all laid out in neat, geometric patterns. From above, they looked like soldiers standing in formation—rows of squares, precisely spaced, and between them, dark, uneven scars marred the ground. The longer he stared, the more unsettling it became.

"It’s like a battlefield," Toast whispered, his voice hushed with awe. "Those flowers… they’re not random."

Terrence joined him, eyes scanning the strange, symmetrical arrangement of blooms. "Looks like someone played a game of chess with flowers and left halfway through."

Toast nodded, unease crawling up his spine. He had heard stories about this place—about the valley of soul flowers, where ancient battles were fought long ago. When the moon rose and bathed the valley in its blood-red glow, the dead were said to walk again, clashing in an eternal, spectral battle. The sound of armor, the screams of long-forgotten warriors, and strange voices speaking in a language no Courser could understand… human language.

"At night," Toast began, his voice low, "this place is supposed to come alive. They say you can hear the dead. The Coursers who fought and died here. And the humans who led them."

Terrence looked intrigued, his usual bravado momentarily replaced by genuine curiosity. "Do you believe that?"

Toast wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. They had encountered the Harvester, escaped magma and traps that would’ve taken their lives in an instant. Crazy talk. A battlefield that reawakened under the Harvest Moon seemed more likely than he cared to admit.

"It doesn’t matter what I believe," Toast replied. "The valley remembers, whether we listen or not."

Terrence turned to Toast, his red eyes glowing with mischief. "You’re not suggesting we visit at night, are you? Because that sounds exactly like the kind of bad idea I’d be into."

Toast shook his head, though a part of him was curious. There was always something to learn, even in a place like this. But the scars in the field of flowers, the empty spaces where nothing grew, warned him that some battles were best left undisturbed.

"We’ve had enough trouble for one day," Toast said. "Let’s get off this ledge before we attract more attention."

But as they began to descend, a low rumble echoed from deep within the valley. The flowers below swayed, their petals shifting as if stirred by an unseen force. The hairs on Toast’s neck prickled. The Harvest Moon was beginning to rise.

And with it, the dead might soon follow.