When I inspected the site, a rotten beam collapsed, and I died. Fair and square—no complaints. But someone up above decided that a Moscow architect with forty-five years of experience would still be useful. Instead of retirement and memoirs, they gave me a sick body of an alcoholic, a medieval village, and a system that awards points for every properly hewn beam—and threatens me with an imminent death. No chosen ones. Progress through craftsmanship. Survival through engineering calculations. And experience that death won’t take away.