The echoes of her botched ambush still lingered in the cavern, a phantom reminder of her miscalcution. Bathilda, her spirit bruised but not broken, navigated the byrinthiunnels with a newfound caution. The rhythmic flutter of her wings, now a measured ce, was the only sound in the oppressive silence.

  "So far, so good," she whispered, the clicks a fragile shield against the creeping unease.

  (Enhanced Echolocation) was a tangible blessing, a bea in the suffog darkness. The doubled range painted a vivid, three-dimensional map of her surroundings, revealing hidden threats and unseen dangers. It was a trade-off, yes, fewer skill activatio slower progression, but the ability to perceive threats from afar was invaluable, a lifeline in this treacherous domain.

  The familiar passage leading to the Millisnake's ir materialized before her, a short, stricted tunnel opening inter, albeit still cramped, chamber. Inside, a single Brat, a hulking brute of muscle and malice, was engrossed in its task. It seemed oblivious to her presence, a moment of vulnerable tration as it's thick cws dug through a mound of rubble.

  Bathilda hovered at the tunnel's mouth, her senses on high alert. (Enhanced Echolocation) pulsed outwards, painting a detailed picture of the chamber. She needed absolute certainty, a clear field of e, a safety woven from awareness. The solitude of her target was firmed, a solitary predator in a fined space.

  This time, I won't be caught off guard, she thought was a mantra of resolve. With my new speed and defense boost, I do this.

  A surge of adrenaline coursed through her, a potent cocktail of fear aermination. She was no lohe hesitant creature that had stumbled into this world. She was now a hunter, honed by survival, driven by a primal o overe.

  With a burst of speed, she unched herself into the chamber, a dark projectile aimed at the Brat's exposed back. She hantom, a whisper of death on the ceiling, desding with the fury of a storm. The anticipation of her target's startled rea fueled her momentum.

  But the Brat was not as oblivious as she had hoped. It whirled around, its eyes bzing with feral rage, a guttural screech tearing through the stillness. The sound rimal scream, a chilling echo of the other Brats, a decration of viole charged, a lumbering behemoth of muscle and cws.

  Anticipating the attack, Bathilda executed a daring maneuver, a desperate gamble born of y. Just as the Brat's cwed hand swept through the air, a razor-sharp arc of death, she retracted her wings, plummetihward. Gravity, her unlikely ally, pulled her down, narrowly avoiding the lethal strike. The memory of the previous Brat’s attack, and how lucky she had been, was a stark reminder of the danger.

  The impact with the cave floor was jarring, a rough nding that sent tremors through her body. But she didn't falter. She rolled, a fluid motion that carried her beh the Brat's massive form, a blur of motion in the dim light. As she passed beh the creature's belly, her jaws snapped shut, sinking her venomous fangs into its soft underbelly. (p), ced with poison, was delivered with a ferocity born of desperation.

  The mahough successful, exacted a toll. Her wings ached, a sharp, throbbing pain that spoke of strained muscles and torn membranes. A small, ragged tear marred the leathery surface of one wing, a crimson stain against the dark fabric. It was a wound, a warning, a sign that her luck was fragile.

  I 't believe that worked, she gasped, her mind ced with disbelief. I'm Evel 'Fug' Knievel!

  But the triumph was fleeting. The Brat, enraged and wounded, retaliated with terrifying speed. A thick, muscur tail, a living whip of pink flesh, snaked out, ing arouorso, strig her good wing and tightening around her neck. It wasn't a rope, but a living snare, a testament to the Brat's raw power.

  Despair washed over Bathilda, a cold wave of fear that threateo drown her. She thrashed, her damaged wiing against the air in a futile attempt to break free. The Brat's grip was unyielding, a vise of muscle and bone.

  The monster’s tail turned her so she faced the mohe stench of its breath, a putrid miasma of decay, assaulted her sehe Brat's jaws, lined with jagged, yellow teeth, opened wide, a gaping maw of death.

  No! Get off! Shit! Help! Fuck! Help! I don't want to die!

  The Brat's teeth cmped down on her shoulder a wing, the force of the bite sending a jolt of pain through her body. The creature shook her, a violent, bone-jarring motion, attempting to tear her wing from its socket.

  Just as despair threateo e her, a flicker of hope ignited withihe Brat, in its rage, had made a critical error. It had brought her within striking distance, a fatal pse in its predatory instincts.

  With a surge of adrenaline, Bathilda retaliated. Her jaws snapped shut, her fangs sinking deep into the Brat's neck. (Poison Fang) and (p) were unleashed, a flurry of venomous bites that tore into the creature's flesh. Owice, she bit, her fangs sinking deeper with each strike. She was a whirlwind of fury, a creature possessed by a primal rage.

  The world narrowed, the chaos of battle dissolving into a singur focus. There was only the Brat, the taste of its blood, the feel of its flesh tearih her fangs. She bit again and again, driven by an instinct older than reason, a desperate o survive.

  The Brat's struggles grew weaker, its movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Finally, with a final, savage bite, Bathilda tore through its neck, severing its head from its body.

  The battle was over. The trance-like state that had gripped her senses dissipated, leaving her breathless and disoriented. She looked down at the gruesome tableau, the headless corpse of the Brat lying at her feet, its blood staining the cave floor.

  A wave of revulsion washed over her, a visceral rea to the brutality of her as. She, a creature of passion, had desded into a frenzy of violence.

  I feel like I went a bit crazy at the end there, she whispered, her body trembling. I'm pretty sure it died after my third or fourth bite, so why did I keep going? It felt... raw, maybe? No, it robably my frustration towards Florence's crappy idea of help. Whatever it was, it doesn't even matter. What did I get from that one?

  The notifications, previously ignored in the heat of battle, scrolled across her vision, shedding light on her as.

  Bathilda has reached Level 7.

  p has reached Level 5.

  p has evolved into p+

  p now deals double damage and has a high ce to add a bleeding effect to its target

  Iron Body has reached Level 3

  Swift Wing has reached Level 2

  Identify has reached Level 2

  Skill points have been acquired

  A bleeding effect? I bit its fug head off! she couldn't help but add, a mix of disbelief and morbid amusement. The raw frenzy she'd felt was expined. She had evolved, and the bloodlust that came with it was a shog, but necessary, tool for survival.