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. r?aNObE?S

    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.

    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.”

    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