The echoing silence of the abyss had been replaced by the frantic thumping of Bathilda’s tiny heart. Fly has risen to Level 3. A fragile milestone, yet a milestone nonetheless. The ascent from the pit, a harrowing climb, had left her wings aching, but the newfound mastery of flight, however rudimentary, instilled a sliver of confidence. Bathilda, perched on the precipice, once again unleashed the probing tendrils of (Echolocation), the skill painting a vivid, if monochrome, map of the surrounding tunnels.

  One direction, the lair 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. Neither offered solace. However, the unexplored tunnel, the one teeming with the large, unsettling mice, beckoned with its promise of experience, of evolution.

  Six of them, she counted, milling around in the cavernous expanse. They're big… too large for mice. More like monstrous rats.

  The strategic mind, honed by countless hours of simulation games, began to churn. 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 Chomp? If I engage directly, they’ll swarm me. A coordinated assault, and I’m… well, I’m small.

  The inherent logic of predator and prey, a concept 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, picking them off one by one… But the gnawing uncertainty of this alien world chipped away at her confidence. What if it’s different here? What if these rats are apex predators? Bat-eating rats? God damn it!

  A pragmatic decision emerged. Best case scenario: they panic. I capitalize on their fear. Somehow. Worst case: they’re stronger and faster. I retreat. I fly. I survive. The plan, simple yet effective, masked the burgeoning terror that threatened to overwhelm her.

  The reality of combat, the visceral, brutal exchange of life, was a stark contrast to the sterile simulations of her past. The pain, the raw, searing desperation of her previous encounter was a constant, gnawing reminder of her vulnerability. Yet, survival demanded action. She couldn't stay weak.

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

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

  Fly has reached Level 4.

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

  The tunnel opened into a larger chamber, the nesting ground of the monstrous rodents. The first, nestled behind a jutting rock, was isolated, 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 menacing, yellowed teeth and eyes that gleamed with predatory intent.

  The creature’s guttural cry shattered the silence, a piercing alarm that echoed through the chamber. It rose on its hind legs, its form towering, its posture aggressive. What the… since when do rats stand? Bathilda’s internal monologue was a chaotic mix of fear and disbelief.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

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

  She braced herself, poised to unleash a combined assault of (Chomp) and (Poison Fang). The creature, however, was faster. A massive paw, thick and calloused, slammed into her face, the impact sending her tumbling, bouncing off the rough, stone floor. The world dissolved into a cacophony of pain and disorientation.

  The jarring collision with a large rock brought her to a shuddering halt. Her vision blurred, her body a symphony of agonizing twinges. A notification flashed 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 malice and death.

  A chilling shriek echoed through the chamber, followed by another, and another. The remaining rodents, roused by the alarm, converged, their forms encircling her, their eyes fixed on her with predatory intent.

  Bathilda, realizing the gravity of her situation, knew that staying was a death sentence. With a surge of adrenaline, fueled by fear and desperation, she launched herself into the air, fleeing the encroaching horde. The pain, a constant, searing presence, intensified with every flap of her battered wings.

  What was that? she screamed internally. Steroids? How are they so strong? And that war cry… are they organized? 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, landing 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 relentless tormentor, gnawed at her, a constant 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 can’t even beat 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 so strong 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 flashed before her eyes:

  Brat has been slain

  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 basic spatial awareness.

  A surge of exhilaration washed over her, the pain replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. The unexpected level-up, the healing surge, the evolved (Echolocation), it was a lifeline, a chance to redeem her failed assault.

  The Brats, as she now knew them, were formidable, but not invincible. A new strategy, 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 environment, the rocks, the shadows, to her advantage. She would strike from the air, a swift, venomous assault, and retreat before they could retaliate.

  The memory of the Brat’s powerful swipe spurred her to caution. She needed to avoid direct confrontation, 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 claim her territory. The Brats, unaware of the transformation, were about to face a foe far more formidable than the one they had battered and humiliated. The hunt was on.