The Reversed Hierophant

As soon as Sancha finished speaking, the entire hall fell into a deathly silence.

Hundreds of people remained frozen in their poses, staring dumbfounded at the girl who had uttered such a mad declaration.

The Roman princess rested one hand on the table in front of Duke Horton, the other gripping the dagger embedded deep in the tabletop. Her gaze, through the gleaming blade, locked onto her older, wealthy uncle. Compared to her rival, she looked so young, so delicate, with honey-colored skin like soft pearls and blue eyes as innocent as a baby’s.

Such a young and beautiful maiden should be listening to passionate love poems from knights among the rose bushes, choosing a beloved from among many suitors, and o spend her precious years adorned in jewels and fine garments.

The only thing she shouldn’t do is draw her sword in this arena full of men.

Yet, it cannot be denied that when she pulled out her dagger and plunged it deep into the table, even the most stubborn traditionalist couldn’t help but inwardly marvel.

How beautiful.

At that moment, when the princess drew her sword and cut through the romantic sonnets, standing in the cruel arena to defend her crown, shedding the youthful skin that fate had given her, the proud and courageous girl shone as if she was glowing.

This time, no one felt that she and Amandra were not alike, they were strikingly alike! They were exactly the same!

“Come on, Uncle Horton, are you scared?” Princess Sancha lowered her body, like a beast fiercely cornering her prey. At this moment, there were no constraints of gender or familial hierarchy between them, only the stark identity of competitors.

Her gentle blue eyes were as deep as the sea, and her expression strangely overlapped with the aloof Amandra at the moment.

Duke Horton looked at his niece, his back pressed tightly against the chair, and his sweat was about to soak his clothes. But he had no intention of standing up, not only did he not, he even had a moment where he wished that he could disappear from here.

Devil!

Sancha was a devil just like her pagan mother!

Rome had never been involved in such a ridiculous gamble – letting the heir to the throne decide the winner by a duel like a clown? This wasn’t some Roman Gladiatorial game! What’s more, he is an elder, and also a man, —was he supposed to compete with his niece in martial prowess?

It’s ridiculous!

Duke Horton subconsciously wanted to look around at the others, to wake up those guys whose mouths seemed to be sewn shut, but he failed – he couldn’t even move his eyes away from Sancha’s face, which was sharply staring at him.

“If you are unwilling, do you plan to admit defeat to me?” Sang Xia asked clearly, word by word, in a voice that everyone could hear.

At this moment, her gaze towards Duke Horton carried a bit of pity and contempt.

Her uncle, how foolish and shallow.

What exactly did he rely on to become her opponent? Simply because God had bestowed upon him the advantage of his gender?

He still doesn’t understand that his gender advantage has vanished. At this moment, in front of the throne, they are absolutely equal.

But he didn’t even dare to stand up, didn’t dare to answer her under her blade.

The atmosphere fell into a stalemate, and the gazes on Duke Horton slowly became meaningful. The nobles were certainly not so willing to support the queen, but they also didn’t like to see a king who was so weak that he even feared a woman’s blade.

Duke Horton noticed the change in people’s hearts. He gritted his teeth and stood up abruptly, reaching for his waist – but he felt nothing. Only then did he belatedly realize that all the councillors had to remove their weapons when they entered the council hall, and the duke was no exception.

Duke Horton gritted his teeth and glared at Sancha, the young princess straightened up and smiled at him: “Please don’t be afraid, uncle, I won’t attack you before you draw your sword.”

Her words sounded more like a condescending and confident declaration than a comfort.

Queen Amandra was silent from beginning to end, and only now finally raised her hand. The attendant behind her understood and quickly left. After a while, the door opened, the steward of Duke Horton came in from outside the door. He held a broadsword used by men in his hand and walked to the Duke.

Duke Horton reached out and grasped the broadsword that had accompanied him for many years with a complicated expression on his face. He recalled the days when he learned swordsmanship with his cousin when he was young. The Roman royal family has always had this tradition. All royal children were skilled in the art of the sword. Though he now appeared bloated, dull, and slow, he once sweated profusely in the training ground day and night, capable of defeating even the most skilled fencing instructors.

Appearing with the steward was Princess Sancha’s knight.

The weapon in the knight’s hand stunned everyone.

It was not the delicate long sword suitable for women they expected.

Nor was it the dagger that Sancha often carried with her.

This was a long blade, as tall as a person, with a handle as long as an arm. The blade was heavy, its width nearly that of an adult man’s palm. Just by looking at it, one could sense its weight. Most women might not even be able to lift it, let alone wield it. This fierce, brutal weapon, with its aura of bloodshed and violence, seemed utterly out of place in the refined elegance of Rome.

In fact, it was not Roman at all. This rugged weapon bore strong Assyrian characteristics, and in the far distant East, in the land of its origin, it had a straightforward and ferocious name: the Horse Slaying Sabre (Zhanmadao 斬馬刀)¹

This was a cavalry weapon, unmatched in mounted combat, capable of decapitating enemies with a single stroke and sweeping through thousands of enemies.

Such a brutally violent weapon was meant for actual combat, not for display. Many had never seen such a weapon in their lives, and only the older nobles who had participated in the Assyrian war remembered it.

The hairs on their backs stood on end. Just the sight of it seemed to bring back the bloody stench from the battlefields of Assyria a long time ago.

Sancha reached out with both hands and grasped the hilt.

Broadsword versus Sabre.

At least in terms of weapons, they were evenly matched.

But when Sancha actually stood there, dragging the long blade behind her, the nobles in the room couldn’t help but show strange expressions.

In the open space of the council chamber, the princess and the duke stood facing each other. Sancha freed one hand and casually tore open the hem of her skirt, ripping the luxurious silk gown and kicking it aside to reveal the practical trousers underneath. She took a deep breath and placed her hand on the hilt.

Duke Horton removed his coat, gripping the broadsword with both hands. The Roman royal family’s ancestral broadsword had a blunt tip and a thick blade, indicating that it was not designed for thrusting but for slashing—a concept that eerily aligned with the Horse Slaying Sabre’s purpose.

Horton wanted to say something, but before he could open his mouth, Sancha cut him off: “Do you have any last words to share?”

Horton: “…”

Her tone made it sound like he was destined to lose!

“Now, we need an arbiter…” Sancha said, her gaze shifting to the Pope on the platform.

Rafael understood her signal and stood up from his seat, pulling out a gold florin. “When it lands, the duel begins.”

Neither side objected.

Rafael placed the coin in his palm and then tossed it high into the air.

The gold coin, bearing the image of the Portia family head and the emblem of Florence, spun through the air, casting a dazzling golden light. All eyes were fixed on it, except for the two heirs to the throne, who stared at each other coldly.

A almost imperceptible crisp sound echoed as the coin hit the marble floor, followed immediately by the explosive clash of steel in the center of the hall!

The sabre scraped across the ground, sending out a small shower of sparks. Sancha bent and twisted her waist, the heavy blade spinning in a circle behind her back before she lunged at Horton like a fierce tiger breaking free from its cage. The duke raised his broadsword to block, and the two heavy blades collided mid-air, unleashing a roar like that of battling beasts.

A storm had erupted in the hall.

This storm was fierce and relentless, leaving scars wherever it passed. The smooth, polished marble floor was now pockmarked with dents. The sabre shattered gilded decorations, while the broadsword cleaved through the lamp posts on the walls. The nobles seated around the hall felt their blood rush to their heads, their bodies stiffening as they watched. They were witnessing a duel—or perhaps, this was more than just a duel.

No one had expected Princess Sancha to possess such formidable swordsmanship. They knew that the princess enjoyed horseback riding and that swordsmanship was part of her curriculum, but who could have imagined that her skill was enough to wield the sabre against her opponent without being at a disadvantage?

Although Amandra had long been pushing Sancha toward the Roman throne for years, people had always only seen Amandra. The little girl hidden behind her mother had been like a small rose in the palace, a flowerbud sheltered in a cradle by her mother. Later, she became the girl wearing the princess’s crown—lively, beautiful, gracious, and intelligent. But what else was there? Looking back, it all seemed like a blur, a fog.

No one had truly taken her seriously, even though she had represented her mother on diplomatic missions to the Papal States and had always been nominally the closest to the crown.

It wasn’t until this moment, as she swung the sabre and split the heavy, hard marble floor, storming into everyone’s vision like a force of nature, that they realized with unprecedented clarity:

This might be their future queen.

Not Princess Sancha, sheltered by Amandra, but Sancha, the heir to the Roman throne.

Horton hadn’t held a sword in years. His body, spoiled by years of luxury, had become a hollow shell of its former self. Wielding the broadsword now felt like a struggle, but the life-and-death duel sent adrenaline surging through him. His muscles tightened, his blood raced, and the rustiness quickly faded. He stared at Sancha, at her youthful face, and the malice in his heart grew like weeds under the sun, wild and unchecked.

He did not hold back, and every move was aimed at taking Sancha’s life. This was originally a duel, a legitimate opportunity to take Sancha’s life – how perfect! As long as he could kill her, what excuse would Yamala have to stop him from ascending the throne? She was nothing but the widow of the late king, shamelessly clinging to the Roman throne for so long. It was time to return everything to its rightful place!

The Roman Crown! It was originally his!

The broadsword and the sabre collided with a deafening crash, sparks flying as the blades clashed. A scorching storm swept through the hall. The queen on the steps watched the scene below calmly, as if the one whose life was hanging in the balance was not her only daughter. There was not even a trace of emotion in those eyes.

Rafael turned his face: “Aren’t you worried?”

At his words, Amandra shifted her gaze from Sancha and replied softly, “If she loses, it will prove she’s truly unfit for the throne.”

Rafael raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you’ve put so much effort into this day.”

“Yes,” Amandra’s voice carried a hint of laughter, or perhaps a sigh. “I’ve put in so much effort just to let her stand in a place where she can be seen…”

So how could she lose?

No one knew how much effort Sancha had poured into this day. Her little sun, from carrying the blade on her back, to cradling it, to finally wielding it with ease—her palms had grown rough with calluses, she had fallen off horses and limped back on to continue practicing…

How could that useless, corrupt fool possibly win against her?

Sancha’s strikes grew faster and faster. The sabre in her hands was constantly gathering momentum, whipping up a tornado centered around her. The heavy blade accumulated force with each swing, crashing down with wide, powerful arcs. Sancha was like a nimble butterfly attached to the hilt, skillfully controlling the long blade, dancing forward with each strike. Horton felt as though he was facing an unprecedented, terrifying storm. He couldn’t interrupt it. His long-unused muscles screamed in fatigue, his heart and lungs working furiously to pump oxygen into his body, but it still wasn’t enough—never enough.

“Why aren’t you fighting back? Hiding won’t help, Uncle. How long do you plan to keep dodging? Are you waiting for the crown to fall into your hands?” Sancha suddenly swept the blade low to the ground, sending scattered broken stones flying. Horton shuddered, leaping awkwardly to avoid the strike.

“The crown won’t come to you on its own, Uncle!” Sancha’s golden-brown hair was disheveled, and through the tangled strands, her blue eyes gleamed with the ferocity of a wolf.

“You have to seize it!”

The heavy sabre didn’t retract after the missed strike. Instead, it flipped in place, the thick, solid blade like a tidal wave, slamming horizontally into Duke Horton’s waist. The portly duke was sent flying sideways, rolling a dozen times on the ground before finally crashing into the leg of the parliamentary table.

This ferocious display left everyone in shock.

Sancha dragged her blade over, coldly staring at her uncle for a moment. Duke Horton, dazed and disoriented from the impact, shook his head and tried to stand up, only to have a foot press down on his chest.

The cold edge of the blade pressed against his neck, the tip of the sabre still dragging on the ground. Sancha held it like a guillotine, the sharp edge resting against the duke’s throat. A thin line of blood trickled down his neck, but Horton keenly noticed that the pressure from the blade didn’t lessen—Sancha truly intended to kill him!

At this moment, he conveniently forgot his earlier thoughts. Horton let out a miserable scream, casting aside any thoughts of the throne: “Stop, stop, stop! I surrender! I surrender! Sancha! My dear Sancha! Please, stop! I’m your uncle!”

The princess maintained her stance, one foot on Duke Horton’s chest, the sabre in her hand like a guillotine. Beneath her disheveled hair, her sharp eyes swept across the long table.

“Now, I say I’ve won. Does anyone object?”

Every noble who met Sancha’s gaze immediately lowered their heads. One by one, the entire table bowed, as if pledging allegiance to a new monarch.

Sancha then declared, “Therefore, I hereby abolish the clause in the Sarik Succession Law that prohibits women from inheriting the throne. In accordance with the succession laws, I, Sancha Isabella Gondola Romanina, am the first in line to the Roman throne. Upon the signing of the marriage contract with Calais, I will ascend as Queen of the Roman Empire, to be known as Sancha I.”

After a brief silence, a low murmur rose from the long table: “As you command, Your Highness.”

1. Zhanmadao 斬馬刀 – also known as horse chopping ‘sabre’/’dao’/’single-edged blade’) is a single-edged sabre with a long broad blade, and a long handle suitable for two-handed use. It was used as an anti-cavalry weapon, dating from Emperor Cheng of Han, made to slice through a horse’s legs. There are various iterations of its form over the dynasties but what’s described in here was probably closest to the ones in the Song-Qing or Ming-Qing period. ↩︎

An example of a Zhanmadao

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