During an inspection of a construction site, a rotten beam collapsed beneath me — and that was the end of my life. Fair enough, no hard feelings, no complaints. But those above decided otherwise: a Moscow architect with forty-five years of experience can still be useful. Instead of a peaceful retirement and memories, I got the worn-out body of a drunkard, a remote medieval village, and a strange system that awards points for every properly processed timber beam and promises a quick death for mistakes.