Chapter 3: The Cute Fluff Ball

Isabella gasped for breath, her body aching from head to toe. The forest was quiet again. The horrible, legged piranha-things lay in the dirt, their tiny, nightmarish bodies still twitching. She had won. Barely. Her hands shook as she gripped the sharp rock she had used to bash their skulls in. DING! "Congratulations! You have killed [Bloodtooth Fish]. +1 Defense. +1 Survival Rate." She exhaled, wiping the sweat from her brow with a bloodstained arm. Her legs were shredded, her arms covered in scratches, and she was pretty sure she had a mild concussion from rolling down that hill earlier. She let out a long, defeated sigh. "...I hate it here." Her throat burned. Her stomach felt hollow. This was real. Too real. She wasn't just in some weird, alternate dimension. This was a wilderness survival nightmare. No doctors. No soft beds. No gourmet food waiting in a fridge. If she didn't find food, she'd starve. If she didn't find shelter, she'd die. And the worst part? No one was coming to help her. The thought made her chest tighten. She swallowed, blinking rapidly. Crying wouldn't fix this. She needed a plan. She needed to be smart. First—she needed to rest. Her entire body screamed in protest as she forced herself to stagger to a tree. She slumped down, her arms wrapped around her bleeding legs, head tilted back against the bark. Just a minute. Just sixty seconds of peace. ... Snap. Her eyes flew open. A sound—low, rustling, fast. Her body tensed. Not again. Not again. She was so close to crying when she heard it— Something was chasing her. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to stand, preparing to run for her life again. Then— A tiny, round body shot out of the bushes. Isabella froze. She blinked. "...What?" The creature skidded to a stop in front of her, its tiny nose twitching. It was... small. Furry. A ball of fluff with stubby little horns and comically large eyes. It was barely the size of a housecat. Not a monster. Not a bloodthirsty beast. Just a tiny, adorable thing. She blinked again. Was this what had been chasing her? The urge to coo was immediate. "Oh my God," she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. "You are so cute." It tilted its head, ears twitching. She stepped forward. "Are you lost?" It blinked up at her. She smiled. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe this world wasn't just death and suffering. Maybe— The creature lunged at her ankle. And bit her. Pain exploded through her leg. She screamed like it was a dragon. "AAAGHHH—WHAT THE HELL—" She kicked out instinctively, stumbling backward. The creature latched on tighter. Tiny, razor-sharp teeth sank into her skin. She panicked. She grabbed a stick and started whacking it. "GET! OFF! ME!" It shrieked. Loud. High-pitched. Like a pig mixed with a banshee. Her survival instincts kicked in. With a final desperate swing, she smashed the creature against the ground. It twitched. Then— It went still. She panted, chest heaving. Silence. She had won. DING! "Congratulations! You have defeated a [Horned Squealer]. +2 Combat." She stared down at the tiny, lifeless body. Her breath hitched. "Oh my God," she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes. "I JUST KILLED A BABY." Her legs gave out. She collapsed into the dirt, hands gripping her hair. What kind of psychotic world was this?! She had never killed anything before. Not a bug. Not a fish. Nothing. And now? She had bludgeoned a tiny, fluffy creature to death. A tiny, adorable fluffball that tried to eat her. Her emotions spiraled. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to— Her stomach growled again. Loudly. Her body betrayed her. "No. Absolutely not. I am not eating this thing," she hissed. Her stomach: Yes, you are. But she was really hungry ಥ⁠╭⁠╮⁠ಥ She gulped. How the hell was she supposed to cook it?! She looked around. No lighter. No stove. No chef to yell at for messing up her order. Her brain scrambled for solutions. What did people in survival movies do? Rubbing sticks together? She grabbed two dry sticks and furiously rubbed them like a madwoman. Nothing. She kept going. Her arms burned. Her fingers ached. Her patience snapped. She threw the sticks into the dirt and screamed into the heavens. "HOW DO CAVEMEN DO THIS?!" Then—a ding from the system. System: "Detected fire-starting struggle. Would you like a survival tip?" She froze. "...Yes?" System: "Find flint or something already burning." She blinked. "Find something... burning?" Like fire? She wanted to punch the system. But then—a scent drifted into her nose. Smoky. Charred. She sniffed the air like a bloodhound and followed it. A small tree branch was smoldering a few feet away, probably hit by lightning earlier. (The gods are obviously helping her) Her eyes widened. Oh. Oh! She rushed over, carefully picked up the burning end with a rock, and carried it back like it was the Olympic torch. She dropped dry leaves over it and gently blew. The fire spread. Her eyes watered. "Oh my God." She had fire. She had actually made fire. Well, stolen fire, but whatever. She poked the dead fluffball with a stick and held it over the flames. The fur burned off with a terrible smell. She gagged. But soon... the meat turned golden. The scent changed. Her stomach rumbled violently. Her hands shook. Slowly, she took one hesitant bite. And then—her eyes widened. "Oh... my God." It was delicious. Tears pricked her eyes. She never thought her first meal after death would be something she killed herself. She chewed slowly. Swallowed. And then, very softly, she whispered— "...I am never telling anyone about this."