Bathilda, perched precariously on a rough root jutting from the ceiling, felt a tremor of something akin to control. Below, the chaotic sprawl of her new reality stretched out, a tapestry of unknown dangers and tantalizing possibilities.

  The recent, harrowing encounters, the near-death experiences that had become her morbid routine, had finally spurred her into a moment of calculated caution. She needed to understand, to quantify, to master this strange, game-like existence.

  The digital notifications, shimmering overlays in her vision, pulsed with information. She navigated through them with a newfound focus, each screen revealing another layer of her altered self. The sheer volume of data was overwhelming, yet strangely comforting in its precision. This wasn't merely survival; it was a system, a set of rules she could learn and exploit.

  First, the skills:

  Chomp+ Level 5: The primal, instinctive bite, now honed and enhanced. She remembered the gnashing teeth, the satisfying crunch, the raw, visceral power.

  Echolocation+ Level 5: The world painted in sound, a symphony of echoes revealing hidden details, a radar for the unseen.

  Fly Level 4: The liberation of soaring, the wind rushing through her wings, a fragile mastery of the air.

  Poison Fang Level 3: The insidious venom, a silent killer, a hidden weapon lurking in her jaws.

  Iron Body Level 3: A growing resilience, a hardening of her form, a shield against the brutal world.

  Swift Wing Level 2: The promise of greater speed, a fleeting burst of acceleration, a vital tool for escape or pursuit.

  Identify Level 2: The ability to decipher, to understand the nature of things, a crucial tool for survival.

  Wing Slash Level 1: The forgotten skill, a latent power, a potential game-changer. A ranged attack.

  Eight skills, she thought, a mental echo in the silence. And I completely forgot about that last one. Typical.

  Then, the status screen:

  Name: Bathilda

  Race: Poisonous Bat

  Class: None

  Title: None

  Level: 7

  XP needed: 228

  HP: 58/58

  MP: 58/58

  Fifty-eight health points, she mused, the number was a stark contrast to the near-fatal ten she had started with. And mana points... presumably for magic. But how? The numerical representation of her life, her very essence, was both alien and strangely reassuring. It was a tangible measure of her progress, a roadmap to her potential.

  The 228 experience points needed for the next level hung in the air, a distant goal. Is that a lot? A little? I suppose I'll find out. The leveling had been relatively swift so far, a testament to her constant struggle for survival. But the fighting, the actual combat, remained her greatest challenge.

  "If I'd been faster, more decisive," she thought, her gaze falling to the bisected corpse of the "Brat" below, "I could have avoided so much. But hindsight is useless now."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The corpse, a mangled testament to her recent struggle, became her impromptu training dummy. Time to test this 'Wing Slash'.

  With a flick of her wing, a visible arc of wind, sharp as a razor, tore through the air. The sound was a low, whistling hiss, and the effect was immediate. The Brat's arm, already severed, was further dissected, the flesh parting with disturbing ease.

  Whoa, she breathed, a spark of excitement igniting within her. She repeated the motion, again and again, each swing a precise, deadly slice. The corpse, once a grotesque humanoid, was reduced to a pile of ragged meat, a testament to the devastating power of her newfound skill.

  After a prolonged session of practice, and two levels gained, Bathilda paused, her wings still humming with residual energy. A wide, toothy grin spread across her face. This... this is incredible! The sheer destructive potential of Wing Slash was exhilarating. If only she had remembered it sooner, her previous battles would have been far less perilous.

  She reflected on her other skills. (Chomp+) and (Enhanced Echolocation) had proven their worth, evolving with experience. The primal bite, the sonic vision, had become extensions of her very being. The poison fangs had also proven to be a deadly tool.

  Three kills, she recounted, the tally echoing in her mind. One barely alive, one poisoned, one... well, one decapitated. Each victory, however brutal, was a step towards mastery.

  Now, the question loomed: the Brat horde. The thought of facing them, of unleashing her newfound power, was both terrifying and tantalizing. Do I test my strength? Or do I stick to the safer path? She paused, considering. No. Not yet. I will continue to gain power, and then when I am ready, they will know my name.

  The cool, damp air of the tunnel clung to Bathilda as she cautiously uncurled herself from her compact perch. The echo of her movement, a soft rustle against the rough stone, amplified the silence that pressed in from all sides.

  Curiosity, mingled with a prickle of anxiety, drove her forward. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, a dim, echoing chamber where shadows danced and shifted like phantoms.

  Her limited vision, usually sufficient for navigating the familiar warrens, struggled to pierce the gloom. With a concentrated effort, Bathilda activated (Enhanced Echolocation), sending out a pulse of sound that bounced off the cavern walls, painting a crude, yet informative, map in her mind. Simultaneously, (Identify) engaged with newfound potency. The familiar wash of information flooded her senses, now augmented with the startling addition of health bars.

  The scene before her was a brutal tableau of survival. At the far end of the cave, two creatures were locked in a ferocious struggle, a desperate dance of death. One, a Brat, a hulking, gnarly beast with teeth like broken tombstones and a disposition to match, was being relentlessly harried by its adversary.

  The other, an Alto, was a creature of startling agility and savage grace. It resembled a rabbit, but magnified to a terrifying scale, its fur a stark white against the grey stone, its eyes gleaming with feral intensity. Long, wickedly sharp claws extended from its powerful paws, promising swift and brutal ends.

  The (Identify) skill delivered a jolt of unsettling information. Brat: 120/320 - Cave dweller. Prefers to attack in packs. The Brat's health bar was already significantly depleted. The Alto, a creature of nightmare proportions, boasted a staggering 400 health overall, but was 229 short of its total.

  Bathilda's spines bristled. Why? she thought, a surge of indignant frustration rising within her. Why do they have such good vitality? Is it some inherent species advantage? Am I being systematically disadvantaged by the fabric of this world?

  "Enough!" she hissed, her voice a sharp, prickly click in the cavern's stillness. "Focus, Bathilda! This is an opportunity. A chance to observe, to learn, to grow stronger."

  The Alto was a whirlwind of motion, its attacks a relentless barrage of kicks, bites, and slashes. The Brat, sluggish and battered, struggled to defend itself, its clumsy attempts at retaliation easily evaded by the Alto's superior speed and agility. Each strike from the Alto sent a shiver of dread through Bathilda. The raw, unbridled ferocity of the creature was unnerving.

  This is it, she thought, steeling herself. The Brat's weakened. Now is my chance. She decided on a plan. I'll use (Wing Slash) on it, test the skill's effectiveness on a living target. Then, if possible, I'll attempt a hit-and-run tactic on the Alto, a quick bite with (Poison Fang) and (Chomp+), and then retreat to observe the damage.

  A wave of doubt washed over her. Two enemies. Can I handle this? What if they join forces against me? What if the Alto is too fast, too powerful?

  "Stop your incessant whining!" a voice, sharp and insistent, echoed in her mind. "The Brat is practically dead. Get in there, now! This is your chance to prove yourself!"

  Bathilda paused, a flicker of confusion crossing her mind. Am I really arguing with myself? she wondered, but the urgency in the voice spurred her into action. She dashed forward, her small form moving with surprising speed, a determined glint in her eyes.

  The cavern, once a place of fear, now became a stage for her own desperate struggle for survival. The air was taught with tension, the sounds of the ongoing battle a brutal symphony that would soon include her own discordant note. She moved, a small, prickly warrior entering a battle far larger than herself.