A Desperate Battle
The Butterfree at the rear were caught—speared through by razor-sharp beaks.
One fell.
Then another.
The survivors pushed their wings to the limit, desperation fueling their speed.
Bell watched the distance between them and the Spearow, timing it perfectly.
Then—
"SPLIT—NOW!"
His command cracked through the chaos.
Instinctively, the Butterfree divided, veering left and right.
The Spearow blinked in confusion—too late to react.
Because right ahead, the Elder Butterfree's strike force unleashed their fury.
Air Slash. Psybeam. Gust.
A devastating salvo smashed into the Spearow vanguard.
The Elder's attack stood out—a Psychic shockwave that scattered the flock like leaves in a storm.
The frontliners dropped instantly, crippled.
Then—three shadows descended from above.
Fearow.
Their target? The Elder Butterfree.
Bell's eyes narrowed as their stats flashed in his mind:
Pokémon: Fearow
Type: Normal/Flying
Level: LV 49
Potential: Yellow
Ability: Keen Eye
Pokémon: Fearow
Type: Normal/Flying
Level: LV 48
Potential: Yellow
Ability: Keen Eye
Pokémon: Fearow
Type: Normal/Flying
Level: LV 47
Potential: Yellow
Ability: Keen Eye
Just as I thought.
These three were the apex predators of the Spearow flock—only slightly weaker than the Elder.
Bell's theory solidified: Level 50 was a threshold.
Otherwise, three Fearow should've crushed a single Butterfree instantly.
The Elder's strength had to come from crossing that barrier.
The Turning Tide
Bell looped around, regrouping behind the Elder.
But something was off.
Most of the Butterfree had followed him—only a handful obeyed his order to split.
The Elder noticed but had no time to dwell.
The three Fearow dove, wings glowing with Aerial Ace.
Same strategy as last time: Pin down the leader, feast on the rest.
The Spearow surged forward, aiming to overwhelm the Butterfree in close combat.
Type advantage.
Speed advantage.
Brutal efficiency.
Bell's Stand
"You're dead."
Bell locked onto several Spearow charging straight for him, their eyes glinting with hunger.
His gaze turned icy.
Psybeam.
A psychedelic laser lanced out, scorching through the flock.
[Ding! Host has leveled up. Current level: LV 21]
"Slower gains after 20…"
The move drained him, forcing brief pauses between bursts.
But the Spearow kept coming.
"Do these things ever get full?!"
Another Psybeam sweep.
This time, the Spearow adapted—flanking, dodging, weaving.
"Oh, now you're coordinating?!"
Bell switched tactics, conserving energy for precision shots.
Aim. Fire.
Aim. Fire.
Each blast punched through wings, sending Spearow spiraling to their doom.
Gravity was merciless.
The Cost of War
Despite Bell's efforts, Butterfree kept falling.
This was nature's cruelty—no room for mercy.
His body ached, wounds stinging.
His mind burned, Psychic energy nearly depleted.
"I'm just a bug. One wrong move, and I'm dead."
But he refused to break.
"We need to break THEIR leaders."
The Fearow were the key.
As long as they pressed the Elder, the Butterfree stood no chance.
Bell's wings trembled.
"How…?"
Then—an idea sparked.
A gamble.
But the only play left.