The eg silence of the abyss had been repced by the frantic thumping of Bathilda’s ti. Fly has risen to Level 3. A fragile milestone, yet a milestone heless. The ast from the pit, a harrowing climb, had left her wings ag, but the newfound mastery of flight, however rudimentary, instilled a sliver of fidence. Bathilda, perched on the precipice, once again unleashed the probing tendrils of (Echolocation), the skill painting a vivid, if monoe, map of the surrounding tunnels.

  One dire, the ir of the colossal monstrosity, remained a dark, terrifying enigma. The other, the path from which the Millisnake had slithered, held the chilling memory of a narrow escape. her offered soce. However, the unexplored tuhe oeeming with the rge, uling mice, beed with its promise of experience, of evolution.

  Six of them, she ted, milling around in the cavernous expahey're big… te for mice. More like monstrous rats.

  The strategid, honed by tless hours of simution games, began to . Fly in first. That’s a must. But then…? The memories of the Millisnake’s demise, the brutal dance of fangs and blood, sparked a tactical dilemma. Poison Fang or p? If I engage directly, they’ll swarm me. A coordinated assault, and I’m… well, I’m small.

  The i logic of predator and prey, a cept ingrained from her previous life, offered a glimmer of hope. Bats prey on mice. Surely, they’ll scatter at the sight of me. A swift, aerial assault, pig them off one by one… But the gnawing uainty of this alien world chipped away at her fidence. What if it’s different here? What if these rats are apex predators? Bat-eating rats? God damn it!

  A pragmatic deerged. Best case sario: they panic. I capitalize on their fear. Somehow. Worst case: they’re stronger and faster. I retreat. I fly. I survive. The pn, simple yet effective, masked the burgeoning terror that threateo overwhelm her.

  The reality of bat, the visceral, brutal exge of life, was a stark trast to the sterile simutions of her past. The pain, the raw, searing desperation of her previous enter was a stant, gnawing reminder of her vulnerability. Yet, survival demanded a. She couldn't stay weak.

  Bathilda, her wings trembling, began her ast. The transition from vertical climb to horizontal flight proved more challenging than anticipated. The delicate bahe subtle adjustments of wing and body, required practice.

  Miretched into an hour as she practiced rudimentary maneuvers, the tunnel walls blurring as she flitted bad forth. Each successful flight, a small victory, fueled her resolve. Finally, a notification:

  Fly has reached Level 4.

  The newfound proficy, however minor, emboldened her. She resumed her ast, aiming for stealth, for surprise. She ceased fpping, gliding silently, adjusting her altitude with minute shifts in her wings.

  The tunnel opened inter chamber, the ing ground of the monstrous rodents. The first, led behind a jutting rock, was isoted, a potential target. As she drew closer, the creature’s form solidified, revealing a grotesque caricature of a mouse, a hulking, fur-covered brute with menag, yellowed teeth and eyes that gleamed with predatory i.

  The creature’s guttural cry shattered the silence, a pierg arm that echoed through the chamber. It rose on its hind legs, its form t, its pgressive. What the… since when do rats stand? Bathilda’s internal monologue was a chaotic mix of fear and disbelief.

  The distance closed rapidly. Bathilda’s initial fidence evaporated, repced by a primal urge to flee. “This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.” But retreat was no longer an option. She itted, her small form a projectile aimed at the monstrous rodent.

  She braced herself, poised to unleash a bined assault of (p) and (Poison Fang). The creature, however, was faster. A massive paw, thid calloused, smmed into her face, the impact sendiumbling, boung off the rough, stone floor. The world dissolved into a cacophony of pain and disorientation.

  The jarring collision with a rge rock brought her to a shuddering halt. Her vision blurred, her body a symphony of agonizing twinges. A notification fshed before her eyes: HP: 9/30. A single blow, a casual swipe, had decimated her health.

  The world's evilest Raticate, standing on all fours, loomed over her, its eyes gleaming with predatory hunger. Drool dripped from its jaws, a grotesque testament to its savage nature. This certainly wasn't a lovable Pokémon, but a creature of malid death.

  A chilling shriek echoed through the chamber, followed by another, and ahe remaining rodents, roused by the arm, verged, their forms encirg her, their eyes fixed on her with predatory i.

  Bathilda, realizing the gravity of her situation, khat staying was a death sentence. With a surge of adrenaline, fueled by fear and desperation, she unched herself into the air, fleeing the encroag horde. The pain, a stant, searing presence, intensified with every fp of her battered wings.

  What was that? she screamed internally. Steroids? How are they s? And that war cry… are they anized? Am I just… weak? The questions swirled in her mind, a vortex of self-doubt and fear.

  She crossed the chasm, the perilous pit that separated the two tunnels, nding in a crumpled heap on the opposite side. The escape, far from the easy feat she had envisioned, had been a grueling ordeal. The pain, a releorment her, a stant reminder of her vulnerability.

  Florence… I wish I could call Florence, she whimpered, the sound an audible click. How am I supposed to help anyone? I ’t eve a rat… a monstrous rat, but still… A wave of self-pity washed over her, a bitter cocktail of fear and frustration. Why is everything s here? I hate this world.

  The moment the curse left her lips, a wave of warmth spread through her body, a soothing balm that eased the pain. A series of notifications fshed before her eyes:

  Brat has been sin

  Bathilda has reached Level 4

  Poison Fang has reached Level 3

  Echolocation has reached Level 5

  Echolocation has evolved into Enhanced Echolocation

  Enhanced Echolocation: The range of this skill is doubled, and now provides better spatial awareness.

  A surge of exhiration washed over her, the pain repced by a renewed sense of purpose. The ued level-up, the healing surge, the evolved (Echolocation), it was a lifeline, a ce to redeem her failed assault.

  The Brats, as she now khem, were formidable, but not invincible. A rategy, honed by the lessons learned from her failed assault, began to form. “No more fair fights. Hit and run. That’s the key.”

  The (Enhanced Echolocation) provided a detailed, three-dimensional map of the chamber, revealing the Brats’ positions, their movements, their weaknesses. She would use the enviro, the rocks, the shadows, to her advantage. She would strike from the air, a swift, venomous assault, areat before they could retaliate.

  The memory of the Brat’s powerful swipe spurred her to caution. She o avoid direct frontation, to utilize her speed and agility. She would be a phantom, a deadly whisper in the darkness, a predator striking from the shadows.

  With renewed resolve, Bathilda took flight, her wings beating with newfound purpose. She was no longer a frightened fledgling, but a predator, a hunter, ready to cim her territory. The Brats, unaware of the transformation, were about to face a foe far more formidable than the ohey had battered and humiliated. The hunt was on.