The stone pressed cold against Arin's back as he held his breath. Every muscle screamed for rest, but the dungeon gave none. The hiss of scaled throats echoed through the tunnels, bouncing off the damp walls so that he couldn't tell from which direction they came. His hand clenched tighter around the haft of his spear, knuckles white, shield strapped firm to his arm. Those two pieces of iron and wood were all that stood between him and being torn apart.
A flicker of torchlight licked across the carved walls ahead. He ducked lower, shadows swallowing him, his chest tightening as three lizardmen slithered past the crossway. Their crude spears scraped the stone floor, claws tapping in rhythm, tails dragging behind them. For a heartbeat he thought one of them had caught his scent—their snouts lifted, tongues flicking—but the patrol moved on, their guttural hisses fading deeper into the maze.
Arin dared to breathe again. The air was thick with damp and dust, the torch smoke clinging to his lungs. His exhaustion bit deeper now—his arms heavy, shield rim dented, armor straps digging into sore shoulders. But he pushed forward, sliding along the wall, torch in hand only when he needed it. When he didn't, he let the dark cloak him.
The dungeon felt alive, oppressive, pressing in on him with every step. It wasn't like the sewers. There, rats were predictable; he had learned their habits, their nests, the squeak before the ambush. Here, every tunnel could hide death. Every corner might hold a dozen lizardmen waiting to spring. And unlike rats, they hunted back.
A sharp scrape snapped him to stillness. Ahead, one lizardman strayed from its patrol, a loner. Its scales glimmered in the torchlight, mottled green and brown, spear clutched lazily as it sniffed the air. Arin's heart hammered, but his instincts pushed past his fear.
He moved.
One silent step, then another, spear point angled low. He timed his breath, waiting for the lizardman to pause at a wall carving. The shadows cloaked him until he lunged, spear flashing in a deadly arc. The point pierced under its arm, sliding through the softer scales. A guttural hiss of pain split the air, but Arin didn't let go. He slammed forward, shield bashing hard against its jaw, snapping bone. The creature staggered, claws raking across his armor.
Arin twisted the spear free and drove it in again—throat this time. Hot blood sprayed across the stone, sizzling faintly against the torchlit wall. The lizardman thrashed once more, then went limp, tail twitching against the ground.
Arin froze, listening. No answering hisses. No claws on stone. The patrol hadn't heard. Relief washed through him, but it was cold, thin. He wiped the blood from his face with a shaking hand.
It wasn't strength that had saved him. It was timing. Patience. Outthinking them.
His breath came slow as he dragged the corpse into a shadowed alcove, covering the blood trail as best he could with rubble. If the patrol found this body, they'd tighten the net. Already the dungeon pressed on him like a living predator, and he couldn't afford to let it grow sharper.
He gripped his spear tighter. The shaft was slick with sweat, and his shield bore fresh scratches where claws had scraped past. These tools weren't just weapons—they were lifelines. His armor could fail, his muscles could give out, but if his shield held and his spear struck true, maybe, just maybe, he'd last another hour.
And another.
And another.
But the hisses in the dark reminded him: every minute he lived here was one they wanted stolen back.
The collapsed tunnel left him no room to maneuver. Broken stone and half-buried rubble walled him in. The two lizardmen prowled forward, hissing, their eyes glimmering in the torchlight. One carried a jagged spear, the other a crude cleaver.
Arin's chest heaved, sweat stinging his eyes. His arms felt like lead. His shield was already battered and dented, the leather grip biting into his palm. He knew it—at this pace, he wouldn't last.
"Not enough… I need more—now!"
The thought blazed through his mind, and instinct drove him to open his Status Window. His vision flickered for just a second, translucent glyphs swimming before his eyes. Three points still glowed unallocated. He didn't hesitate.
Two slammed into Strength. One into Endurance.
The world sharpened at once. His arms steadied. The spear in his hand felt lighter, his muscles harder, his lungs less constricted. The oppressive weight of fatigue loosened just enough for him to fight.
The first lizardman lunged. Arin roared, slamming his iron shield into its thrust, deflecting the spearhead aside. With new-found force, he drove his own spear forward, the tip punching between scaled plates at the creature's collarbone. It screeched, convulsing as blood gushed.
The second came fast, cleaver whistling. Arin twisted, shield braced—metal screamed as the edge carved a deep dent across it, nearly ripping the shield from his arm. He staggered, but Endurance bore him up. His footing held.
He shoved hard, shield bashing the lizardman's snout, buying a heartbeat. His spear darted in a blur, thrusting low, puncturing its abdomen. The beast shrieked, clawing at him, but he ripped the weapon free and drove it home again. Once. Twice. Until it fell.
Both lizardmen lay crumpled in the dust, their blood steaming in the dank air.
Arin leaned back against the jagged wall, panting so hard it hurt. Then—
A surge. The familiar rush of warmth flooding every vein, as though the dungeon itself poured raw strength into him.
Level Up.
He blinked, half in disbelief, but the Status Window flared before his eyes.
Level: 10. HP +3. MP +1. Unallocated Points +3. Skill Slot unlocked.
He nearly laughed, but the sound caught in his throat. It wasn't joy—it was relief, mixed with the sharp edge of fear. "Stronger enemies… they push me further. Sewer rats would've taken me weeks. These things…" He glanced at the corpses. "Just one fight, and I've grown again."
No time to delay. He shoved the new points immediately into his frame—two more into Strength, one into Endurance.
The rush hit harder this time, like fire pouring into his bones. Muscles braced, lungs expanded, his heartbeat thundered steady instead of frantic. Even his grip on the spear felt different—like it truly belonged to him now.
Arin pushed off the wall, breathing deep. His shield was warped, his body sore, but his spirit burned hotter than ever. For the first time since entering the dungeon, he wasn't just surviving. He was climbing.
The tunnels did not feel the same anymore.
The oppressive weight of damp stone had been there before, the reek of rot and lizard musk clinging to every surface, but something fundamental had shifted within Arin. The exhaustion that had dragged at his body hours ago remained, the ache in his shoulders, the raw sting of shallow cuts across his arms. Yet beneath it all, a pulse of new strength hummed in his blood, every heartbeat pumping raw force through his limbs.
The level up had changed him.
His shield felt steadier when he gripped it, his spear an extension of his will rather than a fragile weapon clutched in desperation. The next encounter proved it.
The hiss came first, echoing faintly in the tunnel ahead. Arin froze, his body low, shield raised instinctively. A lone lizardman rounded the bend, tongue flicking as its yellow eyes scanned the darkness.
Arin didn't wait for it to spot him.
He exploded from the shadows, slamming forward with a brutal shield bash. The edge of iron caught the lizardman across the jaw. Bone cracked audibly, the creature's head snapping sideways.
Too slow, Arin realized as he followed through, spear darting. His thrust slid into the gap between scales, punching through the creature's collarbone and deep into its chest cavity. The lizardman shrieked, clawing at the haft, but Arin twisted, wrenching it free in a spray of black ichor.
The monster crumpled. Arin's chest heaved, but for the first time in hours, he didn't collapse afterward. His grip tightened on the spear. His breath steadied faster.
"Stronger," he muttered under his breath, almost afraid of the admission.
The sound of the dying creature carried, bouncing along the tunnels. Arin's instincts screamed a warning, and within seconds, two more hisses joined the chorus.
They came from both sides of the corridor.
Arin spun, back to the damp wall, spear leveled. The first lunged from the left, jaws wide. He didn't retreat. He met the attack head-on, shield angled. The monster's teeth clamped down, scraping iron. Arin shoved upward, twisting his hips into the motion, and rammed the spear low.
The tip drove up under its ribcage. The creature howled, writhing, but Arin yanked the spear free and pivoted—just in time to catch the second one's claws raking across his shield. Sparks flew as steel screeched against the blow.
Pain jolted through his arm from the impact. The wood and iron creaked under strain.
Not indestructible, he reminded himself grimly.
He used that same momentum, shoving forward to stagger the beast, then lunged in with a brutal thrust aimed at the throat. The spear punctured flesh with a wet pop, blood spraying hot across his forearm. The creature thrashed once before sagging against the shaft, its weight dragging the weapon down.
Arin planted a boot, shoved the corpse free, and looked at the two bodies bleeding out at his feet.
His breathing came heavy now, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he still stood. Not broken. Not stumbling.
He wiped his face against his sleeve, the copper scent of blood mixing with the dungeon's rot. A part of him wanted to grin.
Another part whispered caution.
As he dragged himself deeper into the dungeon's veins, Arin felt the thought gnawing at him:
Stronger enemies… faster growth.
He'd nearly died against the two lizardmen earlier, only to be rewarded with strength that made these three feel… manageable. It was a dangerous incentive, he realized. Like fire—it drew him closer, even as it threatened to burn him alive.
Adventurers could lose themselves chasing that feeling. A handful of battles could swell into arrogance. One moment of overconfidence could end a life.
Arin forced himself to retreat after that clash, slipping down a narrow side corridor. His shield arm ached, his spearhead was chipped, and a shallow gash oozed along his thigh from where a claw had grazed him. He crouched in the shadows, pressing cloth against the wound, forcing his breath to slow.
Not reckless. Not yet.
When he moved again, it was with purpose.
He heard another patrol before he saw them—three sets of claws scraping stone, guttural voices trading guttural growls. He didn't confront them head-on. Instead, he waited in an alcove where the shadows pooled, torchlight long since discarded.
The first lizardman passed within arm's reach. Arin lunged silently, driving his spear through its lower back. The creature shrieked, collapsing instantly, and the other two spun in alarm.
Arin ripped his weapon free, booting the dying one aside. The second charged, raising its crude axe overhead. Arin ducked low, shield braced, and surged upward with all his strength.
The rim of his shield slammed into the monster's chin, snapping its head back with a crunch. Before it could recover, Arin thrust, his spearhead bursting out through the back of its skull.
The last one roared, leaping over its companions. Arin twisted sideways, the claws narrowly missing his face, scraping stone instead. He rammed his shield into the creature's ribs, shoving it back against the tunnel wall. Cracks spread through the shield's surface at the force, but the lizardman was pinned.
Arin jammed his spear forward once, twice, three times, until the beast's thrashing stopped.
When silence returned, his arms trembled—not from weakness, but from the effort of restraining himself from pressing further.
Every successful strike now felt too easy. Every kill came with the seductive reminder: I am stronger.
But the dungeon didn't let him rest in that illusion for long.
Later, moving cautiously through a wide junction of dripping stone, Arin froze. Ahead, down a sloping corridor, came the steady tramp of multiple feet. He pressed his back flat against the wall, spear angled down, trying to slow his breathing.
One… two… three… more.
The shadows stretched as a patrol rounded the corner. Seven lizardmen, weapons in hand, their yellow eyes glinting in the half-light.
Arin's jaw tightened. Too many.
He held himself utterly still, pressed against the damp stone. The stench of musk and sweat filled the tunnel as they drew closer. His grip on the spear slickened with sweat.
One of them paused, its snout twitching. Its gaze swung toward the shadows where Arin crouched.
Every nerve screamed at him to move, to lash out before discovery, but he clenched his teeth and forced his body to stay still. His heartbeat hammered so hard he swore the creatures could hear it.
Seconds dragged.
The patrol hissed something between them, then kept moving. The scraping of claws slowly faded into the distance.
Arin let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, chest heaving silently.
He wiped blood and sweat from his brow, his paranoia clawing at the back of his mind. In this place, every sound echoed like pursuit. Every flicker of shadow looked like movement.
Arin adjusted his grip on his battered shield, feeling the cracks in its surface under his palm. The strength running through him was real, yes, but so was the weight of the danger pressing in from every side.
The hunt had shifted. He was no longer only prey. But neither was he the hunter—not yet.
The dungeon would decide which he became.
The tunnels had grown quieter. Too quiet.
Arin's breath misted faintly as he crouched near a dripping archway, iron shield raised just enough to guard his flank. His knuckles were raw beneath the leather straps, his grip aching. He could no longer tell how much time had passed—hours? Days? His stomach twisted hollowly, his water skin nearly drained, but instinct told him that hunger was the least of his problems.
Something else had taken root in the dungeon. Something heavier than the patrols that scoured its winding halls.
At first, it was just sound: a deep bellow, rolling through stone corridors like distant thunder. Arin froze, every muscle rigid, as the echo pressed against his chest, rattling his bones more than his ears. The guttural cry was answered almost instantly by sharp, hissing responses, dozens of lizardmen voices in unison.
Then he saw it.
From a gap between two broken walls, Arin spied into a wider chamber. Torches lined the cavern in an uneven ring, flames burning with a strange greenish hue. The floor had been packed with earth and stone, trampled flat by countless scaled feet. And at its center stood a towering silhouette.
The Lizardman Chieftain.
It loomed above its kin, easily a head and shoulders taller than any patrol Arin had faced. The creature's scales gleamed dully beneath the unnatural torchlight, many cracked and scarred but hardened like plate. Where the patrols wore little more than scavenged cloth or scraps of bone, this one bore armor hammered crudely from salvaged iron. Plates strapped across its chest and shoulders, mismatched but effective, glinted with menace.
In its clawed hands rested a weapon that seemed more tree trunk than spear—a brutal polearm capped with a jagged iron head, the shaft darkened from age and blood. Even from his distant perch, Arin could see the ease with which the chieftain hefted it, as though it weighed nothing at all.
The patrols around it stood disciplined, heads bowed, claws tapping their shields in a steady rhythm. At every guttural bark from the chieftain, they shifted formation—tightening ranks, spreading lines, forming circles. It wasn't mindless bellowing. It was command. Coordination. Leadership.
Arin's chest tightened. His grip on his spear slickened with sweat. He thought back to the sewer rats, to how overwhelming they had once seemed. How much effort it had taken to hold his ground against even a single nest. And now? That entire struggle felt like the fumbling of a child. Those filthy rodents had been nothing—barely a prelude to what he was staring at now.
"Direct confrontation…" His voice was a whisper in his own head, unspoken but absolute. "That's suicide."
He edged back into the shadows, the iron shield biting against his forearm as he pressed closer to the damp wall. Every instinct screamed to move, to put distance between himself and that chamber, but curiosity rooted him in place. His survival depended on information as much as strength.
Then he heard it.
Chanting.
Not words he could understand—harsh, rasping syllables that clung to the stone and gnawed at the edges of his mind. The sound carried weight, like claws dragging across his bones. The patrols began to sway, striking spear shafts against the ground in unison. The chieftain raised its massive polearm overhead, and the chanting deepened, rolling through the chamber with ritualistic cadence.
Arin's eyes darted around the edges of the cavern. Bones. Countless bones. They had been stacked, arranged—no, shaped—into crude altars. Skulls rested atop ribcages, femurs laid in deliberate spirals. Symbols drawn in what could only be dried blood painted the stone. Some were smeared fresh.
His stomach lurched. He had gutted rats in filth, waded knee-deep through sewage and blood. He had fought monsters in the dark. But this—this was something else. The dungeon itself seemed to breathe with it, the air charged with a sickly weight.
Arin forced himself to retreat, one step, then another. His boots barely kissed the stone, his shield angled to avoid catching the faint torchlight. Still, every sound seemed to scream in the silence. Every drip of water became a warning bell in his ears.
By the time he slipped back into the narrower passage, his legs trembled—not from battle, but from sheer dread.
For the first time since entering this dungeon, he questioned whether survival was even possible. The sewer rats had made him confident. The lizardmen patrols had sharpened him. But this… this was a nightmare born from the dungeon's core itself. A foe beyond his reach.
He leaned against the cold stone, sucking in shallow breaths. His hand found the haft of his spear, fingers tightening until they ached.
"Stronger monsters mean faster growth," he thought grimly. "But that thing? That thing would break me before I could blink."
The realization weighed on him, heavier than his iron shield. No clever ambush, no sudden rush of stat points, no desperate gamble could change the truth: if he faced the chieftain now, he would die.
And so the hunter shrank deeper into the shadows, letting dread seep into his bones, carrying with it the most dangerous thought of all—doubt.
The tunnels narrowed the deeper Arin pressed, the stagnant air thickening with each hesitant step. His torch spat and hissed, smoke clinging low along the ceiling, but he pressed on, driven by instinct and the gnawing conviction that if he stayed too long in one place, the lizardmen would close in like a noose.
The labyrinthine passages twisted endlessly. He tried to piece together some logic, some rhythm to the dungeon's design, but it defied order. Sometimes the hall widened into chambers strewn with refuse and bones. Other times, it funneled into suffocating crawlspaces where he had to duck low and drag his shield behind him. His hand tightened on the haft of his spear, sweat slicking the grip.
The deeper he went, the more the tension mounted. Every scrape of claw on stone echoed like a blade across his nerves. Patrols were changing. He had seen it—the way the lizardmen moved differently now, pulling tighter formations, their hissing sharper, purposeful. They were learning. They were adapting.
And then, the ambush came.
A sharp hiss cut through the gloom, and before Arin could turn, a spear thrust out of the shadows. He barely caught it on the rim of his battered shield. The impact jolted his arm numb, and another shape lunged in from his right. A third emerged from behind, their claws dragging sparks from the wall as they boxed him in. Three of them. Their eyes glimmered, feral and intelligent, as though they had planned this moment.
Arin's gut tightened.
A claw swiped at his flank, catching leather instead of flesh. The blow shredded through his armor, tearing strips free and gouging the skin beneath. Heat flared across his ribs as blood welled, and Arin hissed through clenched teeth. The shield shuddered in his grip as another lizardman struck, the dented iron groaning under the punishment.
His arm almost buckled. His chest burned from the gash where the leather had given way, blood dampening the fabric beneath. Every breath stung, each motion sharper and heavier, but he forced his body to move. He braced the shield forward, snarling, and shoved back with desperate strength.
The corridor funneled them, just as he had planned. Their claws scraped sparks from the stone walls as they tried to crowd him, but the narrow passage betrayed them. One lunged first, and Arin's spear lashed out, catching the creature between the scales. The shaft jolted as it struck deep, and hot blood spilled across the stone.
The others pushed, snarling, one hacking down with a jagged blade. Arin tucked behind his battered shield, the impact reverberating through his bones, and countered with a brutal bash. Metal cracked against scaled jaw, teeth snapping loose as the beast reeled. He followed with another thrust, spearpoint finding the soft seam at its collar. The creature gurgled, clawing at the wound, before collapsing in a twitching heap.
"Not here. Not like this," he hissed through clenched teeth.
He backed down the corridor, boots scraping stone, deliberately angling himself toward a narrow stretch he had noticed earlier. If he could funnel them—force them to come at him one by one—he might have a chance. The shield shuddered again, another dent blooming across its iron face.
The lead lizardman screeched, rushing him with a downward hack of its rusted blade. Arin braced. The blow cracked against his shield and jarred his bones, but he twisted sharply, driving his spear forward. The tip found a gap between scales and slid deep into its ribs. Hot blood spattered across his arm as the beast shrieked, convulsed, and collapsed.
Two left.
The others surged with renewed fury. They were larger—level tens, he guessed—and stronger than the average patrols he had cut down. Their strikes were precise, their movements coordinated. One feinted low while the other swept high, forcing Arin to duck and lunge, his shield catching the worst of it, though every clash reverberated through his aching muscles.
Step by step, he retreated into the choke point. The corridor narrowed to little more than a body's width, and suddenly the two could no longer flank him. One snarled and pushed forward, only for Arin to slam his shield into the confined space, halting the advance. He shoved hard, teeth gritted, then thrust his spear. The shaft jarred as the point grazed off bone, but he twisted, dug deeper, and wrenched it free in a spray of blood.
The lizardman reeled back, howling.
The second tried to shove past its wounded comrade, but Arin pressed in, denying space. The fight devolved into vicious stabs and crushing blows. His shield was battered to the brink—edges curled, surface cratered—but he used it like a weapon, bashing jaws and snapping teeth.
His spear finally cracked through a collarbone and drove into the creature's throat. The lizardman thrashed violently, claws raking his chest, tearing leather armor until flesh burned. He snarled through the pain, forced the spear deeper, and twisted until the beast slumped lifeless at his feet.
Only one remained.
The survivor hissed low, eyes flicking from its fallen kin to Arin. For a moment, neither moved. Arin's breath came ragged, blood trickling down his forearm where a claw had torn skin. His chest ached where the armor was split, the welt beneath throbbing with every heartbeat.
Then the lizardman lunged.
Too close for his spear. Arin abandoned it, letting it clatter to the stone. His hand shot for the dagger at his belt, steel glinting in the torchlight. The creature's bulk slammed into him, driving him hard against the wall. His ribs groaned in protest, but his knife found its mark, plunging into scaled flesh.
The beast thrashed, snapping jaws inches from his throat. Arin twisted the blade savagely, his free hand locking onto the back of its skull, forcing it away as fetid breath seared his nose. The struggle turned primal—man against monster, locked in a death grapple in the dark.
"Die!" he roared, ripping the dagger across its neck.
The lizardman convulsed, claws scrabbling uselessly, then slumped forward. Arin shoved the corpse aside and staggered back, gasping for air.
The silence that followed was deafening.
He leaned against the damp wall, every limb shaking, the adrenaline crash leaving him hollow. His shield arm trembled, his spear lay bloodied and splintered nearby, and his armor hung in tatters. Yet he was still alive. Barely.
He crouched, steadying his breath, scanning the tunnel. No movement. No more shadows converging. Just the three corpses at his feet, their blood already seeping into the cracks.
The lizardmen were adapting—that much was certain. But their numbers… he realized with a jolt—they had thinned. The constant hisses and patrols had dwindled. Less than ten left, maybe fewer.
That thought chilled him more than it comforted. Because the weaker ones were gone. Only the strongest remained.
The dungeon was colder than before, or maybe it was simply Arin's body finally giving in. He crouched in the shadow of a narrow alcove, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His shield arm trembled; the iron plate itself was battered, the edges split, and his knuckles bruised beneath the straps. The iron-tipped spear in his other hand bore the scars of too many clashes, its point dulled and chipped, each thrust now requiring precision just to pierce scales.
And in his belt, tucked tight, rested the crude iron dagger he had scavenged. Jagged, ugly, but sharp enough to kill. It was a reminder of just how far he had slipped from preparation—he was fighting with scraps now.
Arin's supplies were gone. The last of his dried meat had been eaten hours before; the water flask he carried was bone dry. No food. No drink. Just his weapons, his armor, his bruises, and the silence pressing in all around him.
His stomach knotted, not only from hunger but from the realization that his body was slowly being whittled down just like his gear. He couldn't keep bleeding energy like this. He couldn't keep hiding and striking, hiding and striking. Eventually, there would be nothing left of him but bones in this place.
Still, he forced himself to remain still, pressed tight against the damp stone of the alcove. His heart pounded so violently he feared it would give him away. The dungeon was too quiet, the kind of silence that made every drip of water, every breath, feel deafening.
Then he heard it.
A sound.
Not guttural, not the hiss of lizardmen tongues. A voice. A human voice, faint and echoing down the twisting passages. The words were indistinct, stretched thin by stone walls, but unmistakably human.
Arin froze. Hope flared for the first time in what felt like days. Adventurers? Could it be? If there were others here—if he wasn't alone—then maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this nightmare.
But before he could lean into that fragile thought, another sound slithered through the dark.
Claws scraping stone. Weapons tapping against shields. The hiss of lizardmen.
From the opposite direction.
Arin's eyes widened. His body tensed, every instinct screaming. On one side: the alien cadence of human voices. On the other: the guttural growls and dragging steps of his hunters.
They were closing in. From both sides.
The alcove suddenly felt too small, too shallow. He couldn't stay here. If he moved, he risked being seen. If he stayed, he'd be cornered.
His breath caught in his throat, and he raised his battered shield just enough to feel its weight steady him. His spear felt heavier than ever, his hand slick with sweat. The dagger at his belt dug into his hip as though reminding him that no matter how small the weapon, it was still a lifeline.
The voices grew clearer—the human speech carrying words he almost recognized, though the echoes made them twist and warp. At the same time, the lizardmen's hissing chorus swelled, closer now, too close.
Arin's pulse thundered in his ears. He was trapped between two unknowns.
The only certainty was that the dungeon no longer let him hide.
The hunt had turned.
And it was closing its jaws around him.
---
Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 10
HP: 37 / 37
MP: 14 / 14
Strength: 21 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 18 (Max: 83)
Agility: 12 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
Ability: Level Perception
Skill Slots: 1 (Unassigned)
Current Equipment
Armor: Worn Leather Cuirass (damaged)
Shield: Iron Shield
Weapon: Iron-Tipped Spear
Other: Boarded-Blade Knife, Crude Iron Dagger (acquired from fallen)