There was almost no fat on his body; the hard muscles under his skin were tightly bound to his bones.
But most striking of all were those scars all over him, from his cheeks to his belly, from his neck to his back, dense knife marks woven like a spider's web.
He was like an old bear waking from hibernation, gaunt to the bone, furious and ferocious.
"This…" Aleksey was momentarily at a loss.
The few Cuirassiers beside him, including Bagri himself, clumsily stood up: "Teacher Kutuyov…"
"Out of my way!"
Seeing the old man approach, Aleksey's expression grew solemn. He stood up and wiped the sweat from his palms with the corner of his clothes.
Dressed in nothing but a single pair of trousers, Kutuyov trembled with every step, as if any random gust of wind could blow him over.
Yet he still forced himself to stand straight, forced himself to walk on, without a cane, pacing step by step to stand before Aleksey.
"Lord Kutuyov…"
