The next morning.
Roman stood before a soldier.
His nose was sunken, his face covered with acne scars, and one of his eyes was noticeably larger than the other. His right ear had been frostbitten and was now just a lump of flesh.
Harsh living conditions meant many lower-class individuals didn't conform to the standard of beauty, which in this era, simply meant having symmetrical features, not necessarily refined beauty.
Beyond symmetrical features, breathtaking beauty or striking handsomeness required a unique personal charisma.
This was the award podium.
Below, thousands of eyes watched Roman's every move.
"You are Rick. After facing cavalry charges, you conquered your fear and used a Hooked Scythe Spear to hook a Knight's right leg, pulling him down from his horse, correct?"
Roman had witnessed it himself; the Knight died miserably with his leg caught in the stirrup, dragged far by the horse, his body crushed by the horse's hooves.
