During an inspection of the construction site, a rotten beam under me collapsed—and I died. Fair and square, no grudges, no complaints. But somewhere, they decided that a Moscow architect with forty-five years of experience can still be useful. Instead of a well-earned retirement and calm memories, I got an outworn body of a drinking man, a dim medieval village, and a strange system: it hands out points for every correctly processed timber beam while at the same time hinting that death is already close. No “chosen ones.”
Progress—through craftsmanship. Survival—through engineering calculations. And experience that even death can’t take away.