"Oh, is that so?" Jules looked genuinely surprised. "I didn't expect you to pick up reading this quickly. Good. Give me a few days—I'll decide which potion is safest to start you with."
The moment Jules left the tent, Tiberius could barely contain his excitement.
Hell yes! I'm finally learning magic!
For once, the usually stone-faced boy wanted to throw his head back and whoop like a kid who'd just won the lottery. He actually felt like jumping up and high-fiving the sky.
This is real magic!
But before he could savor the moment, the system chimed.
Title: "Lightning" (Fame: 38%)
Title Bonus Unlocked: Lightning (Mid-Level)
Fame jumped again?
Tiberius couldn't hold it in any longer. A huge, unrestrained laugh burst out of him—the first time since arriving in this world that he had laughed so freely and happily.
Finally! This is how a proper transmigrator is supposed to live! Pockets full of gold, a name that travels ahead of me, and a system that actually powers me up. This is the script I signed up for!
He immediately started testing the upgraded "Lightning."
"Huh… did something go wrong?" Tiberius frowned at the faint blue-white arcs dancing across his fingertips. "It doesn't feel that much stronger than before. Is this because A Song of Ice and Fire is a low-magic world?"
He scratched his head, still puzzled.
But that doesn't make sense, he thought. The Faceless Men can change faces and assassinate anyone, the Lord of Light can resurrect the dead and create flaming swords, the Children of the Forest can shatter entire land bridges with their magic… those are insanely powerful.
The Children had once broken the Arm of Dorne to stop the First Men from crossing from Essos. That was continent-shaping magic.
And yet his own lightning was still just… sparks?
Of course, some people would say magic was in decline.
Tiberius didn't buy it.
The Targaryens were still hatching dragons. Right now, House Targaryen had more living dragons than at any point in history.
Calling this the "low tide" of magic felt way too early.
He raised his hand and pointed at a thick tree a hundred paces away.
Then—
BOOM!
Out of a perfectly clear sky came a deafening crack of thunder. A jagged bolt of lightning slammed down and struck the tree dead center, turning the thick trunk into a charred, smoking ruin in an instant.
"Seven Gods above…" Tiberius stared, mouth hanging open. "That… that was way too strong!"
---
A few days later, Jules sat behind a rough wooden table, studying Tiberius the way a smith studies a new blade. Tiberius stood respectfully in front of him, eyes bright with hunger for knowledge and a hidden edge of sharpness.
"Tiberius," Jules said, voice low and measured, "Vito tells me you're learning to read and write at an impressive speed. Very good."
He paused, choosing his words carefully, fingers tapping the tabletop with soft, rhythmic thuds.
"Since you're progressing so fast… I suppose it's time I taught you something… less common." His tone grew unusually solemn, almost cautious, like he was opening a long-sealed forbidden box. "A kind of… swamp witchcraft."
Tiberius's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly, but he stayed silent, listening intently.
Jules reached under the table, opened a hidden compartment, and pulled out a small, dark-wood box. Inside were several leather pouches and sealed clay jars with faded, ancient-looking labels.
He took out a yellowed sheet of parchment covered in simple plant sketches, twisted runes, and precise dosage notes, then slid it across the table.
"This is a potion," Jules said, lowering his voice even further, as if afraid the wind outside might overhear. "Whoever drinks it falls into a half-conscious state. In that state, it becomes very difficult for them to lie. Their deepest, most hidden thoughts… become much easier to pry out."
He lifted his eyes, gaze sharp as a blade. "But the dosage must be exact. Too much and they fall into a sleep they may never wake from. Too little and it does nothing at all. This requires experience… and instinct."
Tiberius scanned the strange plant names and complicated brewing steps, mind racing. He looked up at Jules, voice calm but direct.
"Uncle… back at Bloodwave Cape, the potion you gave the cannibal leader Sonny Bane… was this it?"
Jules met his nephew's eyes without a trace of embarrassment or anger—only deep, steady calm. He gave a single, firm nod.
"Yes," he admitted plainly. "Against a beast that had lost all humanity and was used to lying, ordinary torture has limited effect. Fear and pain sometimes make them invent even wilder lies. But this…" He tapped the parchment. "This bypasses their conscious defenses and reaches the memories and truths they themselves may have buried or forgotten."
He stared hard at Tiberius, voice heavy with warning. "Sometimes, to get the truth, we must use… unconventional means. Especially in this land. The methods of the light do not always work. Remember—this is a tool, like your spear or your sword. How it is used depends entirely on the hand that holds it. And the consequences of misusing it…"
He left the warning unfinished, but the weight of it hung in the air between them like lead.
Tiberius took a slow breath and carefully rolled up the parchment.
"I understand, Uncle. I will use it with care."
---
A few days later, the so-called "New Rising Mercenary Companies Tournament" finally began.
Outside the arena, the air was thick with the mingled smells of leather, sweat, horse dung, and sizzling street food. The stench hit like a wall.
Slaves, vendors, and mercenaries swarmed everywhere. The place felt more like a chaotic market than a tournament ground.
"I didn't expect this many people!" Tiberius muttered, staring at the sea of bodies. "How many came?"
"Half of Lys must be here!" Lysaro pulled off his pearl-and-gem-encrusted helmet, grinning with excitement. "Every major merchant house, every banking family, every slave-lord's son—they're all here! Look, those over there are some of them. Though a lot of them seem to be here just to watch the show, not compete."
If a meteor suddenly fell and wiped them all out… The thought flashed through Tiberius's mind before he quickly killed it.
No. Think normal thoughts. Fantasizing won't get me out of the Volantis meat grinder!
The air buzzed with tension, noise, and the metallic tang of oiled armor. The moment Lysaro arrived with his Lightning Company, a loud, mocking voice cut through the crowd.
"Ohhh—look who it is!"
Mario Ferrero swaggered over in an obnoxiously ornate gilded breastplate covered in ridiculous decorations—huge bull horns on the helm, a blood-red fur cape, and boots with pointed toes that curled up to his knees.
He was surrounded by a pack of equally flashy, arrogant noble sons. A cruel, mocking smile twisted his face.
"Isn't this our great hero of Lys—the precious son of Governor Lysandro, the man who 'cleverly' rescued his own daughter? What's the matter, Lysaro? Tired of writing heroic epics at home? Had to come slum it with the sweaty rabble?"
His entourage burst into exaggerated laughter, perfectly rehearsed.
Mario raised a hand and the laughter died instantly.
"Or perhaps the noble young master plans to test his delicate little hands against real gladiators in the arena?"
His gaze slid past Lysaro and landed on Tiberius, who stood calmly in plain armor beside him. Mario's sneer deepened.
"And here's the famous 'Lightning Kid' himself! Tell me, Lightning Kid, how does that pretty slave girl Lord Lysandro gave you feel? Much better than the rough men in the barracks, I bet? By the way, did you earn that 'Lightning' nickname by being lightning-quick in bed? Need me to show you what real technique looks like?"
The vulgar laughter grew even louder and filthier.
Lysaro's face turned beet red. His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. He opened his mouth to snap back—
But Tiberius gently caught his arm.
Tiberius didn't even look at Mario. He kept his eyes calmly fixed on the noisy arena ahead, as if the insults were nothing more than buzzing flies. He leaned over and murmured to Lysaro:
"Lysaro, when a mad dog barks, do we bark back? Save your strength. We'll settle this on the field."
Mario's carefully prepared provocation landed on cotton. The other side refused to even acknowledge it. He felt a wave of frustration and spat in their direction.
"Cowards!" he snarled. "The nephew of a coward is a coward too!"
Tiberius turned his head sharply.
"Shut your filthy mouth, you stupid bastard," he said in a tone of mocking contempt Lysaro had never heard from him before. "I suggest you close that stinking hole you just pulled away from your own ass—still covered in shit. The smell is too strong. My nose can't handle that much crap!"
"You—! Who the hell do you think you are?!" Mario exploded, leaping forward. "A mercenary's bastard nephew! Who knows which whore your father knocked up to make you! And you dare insult me, you mongrel?!"
"Mongrel? Who are you calling a mongrel?" Tiberius asked coldly, hand resting on his sword hilt.
"Mongrel's calling you!" Mario roared, drawing his sword and pointing it straight at Tiberius's face.
"Exactly! The mongrel is insulting my friend!" Lysaro chimed in with perfect, venomous timing.
As a noble youth trained in rhetoric, grammar, and logic, Lysaro seized the golden opportunity and went straight for Mario's weakest spot.
"Money can buy a lot of things, but breeding and class? Those you can't buy," Lysaro said with mocking elegance. "Manners, grace, proper conduct—you never learned any of it! I see your father is raising you to be the next nouveau riche. Or perhaps your tiny brain simply can't grasp those words?"
"Oh, my apologies," Lysaro added with a poisonous smile. "Maybe your father never intended for you to learn them—otherwise, when you come to my house to apologize, you might try to act like a proper noble. That would be far too embarrassing for everyone, wouldn't it?"
Lysaro was, of course, referring to the end of the 98 AC Shadow War—when the Ferrero family's vaults ran dry and Gastor Ferrero had been forced to go to the Rogare mansion at night to beg for peace.
Lysandro had deliberately dragged the meeting out all night, then made sure every gossip in Lys "happened" to witness Gastor sneaking out the side gate at dawn.
"Rogare, you dare insult my father?!" Mario was completely enraged. He raised his sword and advanced on Tiberius and Lysaro.
"You will pay for this!"