The echoes of Bathilda's relentless assault against the Brat hordes had long since faded, repced by the hushed, damp silence of the subterranean system. Time, a fluid concept in these lightless depths, had stretched and warped, making a full day's passage an abstract notion. Bathilda, driven by a primal urge to escape, had carved a crimson trail through the endless tunnels, her wings slicing through the stagnant air with practiced precision.

  Each nest she encountered was a grotesque tableau of chittering, gnashing Brats, their numbers swelling with each successive discovery. The battles were brutal, a chaotic dance of blood and shadow. Bathilda, however, was no longer the hesitant nurse, but a predator honed by necessity. Her movements were fluid, her strikes decisive, each victory fueling her transformation.

  She was a creature of the night, a symphony of sharpened senses and raw power. The tunnels, once a source of dread, became her training ground, each encounter a lesson etched in blood. The constant struggle refined her skills, transforming her innate abilities into deadly weapons.

  The acquisition of (Blood Control) marked a turning point. The chaotic, animalistic frenzy that had once threatened to consume her was now a controlled surge, a potent tool in her arsenal. The red haze that had clouded her vision was repced by a chilling crity, allowing her to exploit every weakness, every opening.

  The relentless march through the tunnels led her to a dead end, a cavern sealed by solid rock. The echoing silence was a stark contrast to the cacophony of the Brat nests. A thorough scan using (Enhanced Echolocation) revealed no hidden passages, no secret exits.

  Resigned, Bathilda turned back, retracing her path through the macabre gallery of her past victories. The return journey was swift, the absence of enemies allowing her to focus on the byrinthine yout of the tunnels.

  During her flight, she meticulously reviewed her skill list, a holographic interface shimmering in the dim light of her own aura. The recovery section, with its tempting (Heal) skill, held a fleeting allure. However, the isotion from human contact rendered it useless. What good was healing if there was no one to heal?

  Her gaze drifted to the combat skills, a tantalizing array of devastating abilities, each one a potential game-changer. But the price, measured in skill points, was prohibitive. She was a pauper in a king's treasury, her meager ten points a stark reminder of her limitations.

  As she approached the first Brat nest, a skill in the shadow magic section caught her eye. It was a skill that seemed almost too good to be true, a bargain in a world of exorbitant prices.

  Clone: 5 Skill Points (Spell)

  - Creates a magical duplicate of the caster, imbued with a fraction of their essence. The Duplicate can learn and adapt, gradually increasing its power and proficiency.

  Stats:

  - Starts with 50% of the caster's base stats.

  - Gains experience and levels independently, but at a reduced rate compared to the caster.

  - Can learn and utilize skills, but requires dedicated training and mana investment.

  - Sustained by a base mana cost.

  Limitations:

  - One Duplicate can be summoned per level.

  - The Duplicate's growth is capped at the caster's current level.

  - Complex, unique, or soul-bound abilities cannot be replicated.

  - If the duplicate dies, the caster experiences a portion of the pain.

  MP Cost: Base mana upkeep - 50

  The description painted a vivid picture: a magical duplicate, a shadow of herself, capable of independent growth and learning. The implications were staggering. A companion, a scout, a decoy – the possibilities were endless.

  With a surge of anticipation, she confirmed the purchase. The knowledge of the spell surged into her mind, a complex tapestry of arcane formus and mystical energies. She paused, her wings fluttering slightly as she prepared to test her new ability.

  Drawing upon her mana reserves, she channeled the arcane energy, feeling it drain from her like water from a cracked vessel. The sensation was distinct, a stark contrast to the fleeting expenditure of (Wing Ssh+). The mana cost was substantial, a testament to the power of the spell.

  From the cavern floor, a dark, amorphous mass began to coalesce. Cwed feet emerged first, followed by slender, bck legs. A slim, bat-like body took shape, its wings unfurling like dark sails. The head, a grotesque caricature of her own, completed the transformation.

  But there was a discrepancy. The clone was half her size, a miniature version of herself, its proportions distorted. It looked up at her with bnk, unblinking eyes, tilting its head in a gesture that was both cute and unsettling.

  Awww, aren't you just... sort of... adorable? Bathilda trailed off, her thoughts disappearing in the tunnel as the clone nodded. It's head bobbing in agreement.

  Holy Shit! You understand me? Bathilda excimed, her eyes widening in disbelief.

  Another nod.

  Oh my god, this is so cool! Can you believe this, Hiro?

  Silence.

  Bathilda frowned, her thoughts shifting to the leech nestled within her mind.

  Hiro?

  Still there was nothing.

  Then, she remembered. Hiro, ever opportunistic, had found a new, more tangible host.

  Are you kidding me? Hiro!? You couldn't wait two-fucking-seconds before jumping ship?

  The clone's bnk expression shifted, repced by a sly, almost mischievous grin. It twiddled its wings, a gesture that was distinctly Hiro.

  Out! Now! Bathilda shrieked, her voice echoing through the tunnels.

  "Well, it's not what I expected. I'll give you that, but... Where do you expect me to go? Do you want me back inside your head?" Hiro's voice, surprisingly deep and resonant, filled the air.

  Bathilda was momentarily stunned. He was speaking, actually speaking, not just emitting the usual high-pitched squeaks and clicks.

  How are you doing that? she asked, her thoughts ced with disbelief.

  "First, I opened my mouth. Then, I prepared my throat. Ahem. Me, me, me, me, me. And then..." Hiro began, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

  If you're going to be a dick about it, then don't bother. Out, now! Bathilda snapped, her patience wearing thin.

  "Okay. Okay. I was only joking. It's easy. When I speak, I just... Do it? No, that's not right. I just... Talk?" Hiro replied, his tone ced with confusion.

  Really? Just do it? Are you the Nike advert?. Is that seriously all you've got? If it is, I should just dispel you or whatever it's called. Bathilda threatened, her frustration reaching its peak.

  "Wait! Have you even tried to speak since evolving again? Just try it." Hiro pleaded, his voice tinged with panic.

  I tried it when I got here, remember? There were clicks and other weird noises, but no actual words. I mean, I suppose you're right about the evolution. My body might have changed in ways I don't even know about. That might be why you find it so easy without even realising. Bathilda conceded, her voice softening slightly.

  She took a deep breath, focusing on the complex mechanics of speech.

  "Heee... Rooo..." she croaked, her voice a deep, guttural slur.

  Hiro burst into ughter, his tiny body shaking with amusement.

  Bathilda's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She had expected a breakthrough, not a humiliating failure. But beneath the frustration, a flicker of hope remained. The evolution had changed her, granting her new abilities, new perspectives. Perhaps, with time and practice, she could master the art of speech, reciming a part of her humanity lost in the depths of the earth.