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

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

  (Enhanced Echolocation) was a tangible blessing, a beacon in the suffocating 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 activations meant 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 lair materialized before her, a short, constricted tunnel opening into a larger, 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 concentration as it's thick claws 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 engagement, a safety net woven from awareness. The solitude of her target was confirmed, a solitary predator in a confined 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 can do this.

  A surge of adrenaline coursed through her, a potent cocktail of fear and determination. She was no longer the hesitant creature that had stumbled into this world. She was now a hunter, honed by survival, driven by a primal need to overcome.

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

  But the Brat was not as oblivious as she had hoped. It whirled around, its eyes blazing with feral rage, a guttural screech tearing through the stillness. The sound was a primal scream, a chilling echo of the other Brats, a declaration of violence. It charged, a lumbering behemoth of muscle and claws.

  Anticipating the attack, Bathilda executed a daring maneuver, a desperate gamble born of necessity. Just as the Brat's clawed hand swept through the air, a razor-sharp arc of death, she retracted her wings, plummeting earthward. 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 landing that sent tremors through her body. But she didn't falter. She rolled, a fluid motion that carried her beneath the Brat's massive form, a blur of motion in the dim light. As she passed beneath the creature's belly, her jaws snapped shut, sinking her venomous fangs into its soft underbelly. (Chomp), laced with poison, was delivered with a ferocity born of desperation.

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  The maneuver, though 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 can't believe that worked, she gasped, her mind laced with disbelief. I'm Evel 'Fucking' Knievel!

  But the triumph was fleeting. The Brat, enraged and wounded, retaliated with terrifying speed. A thick, muscular tail, a living whip of pink flesh, snaked out, wrapping around her torso, constricting 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 threatened to drown her. She thrashed, her damaged wing beating 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 monster, the stench of its breath, a putrid miasma of decay, assaulted her senses. The 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 clamped down on her shoulder and left 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 threatened to consume her, a flicker of hope ignited within her. The Brat, in its rage, had made a critical error. It had brought her within striking distance, a fatal lapse 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 (Chomp) were unleashed, a flurry of venomous bites that tore into the creature's flesh. Once, twice, 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 singular focus. There was only the Brat, the taste of its blood, the feel of its flesh tearing beneath her fangs. She bit again and again, driven by an instinct older than reason, a desperate need to 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 reaction to the brutality of her actions. She, a creature of compassion, had descended 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 was probably 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 actions.

  Bathilda has reached Level 7.

  Chomp has reached Level 5.

  Chomp has evolved into Chomp+

  Chomp now deals double damage and has a high chance 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 fucking head off! she couldn't help but add, a mix of disbelief and morbid amusement. The raw frenzy she'd felt was explained. She had evolved, and the bloodlust that came with it was a shocking, but necessary, tool for survival.