After the banquet, Altair stayed to discuss the implementation of the 'plan' with Uncle-Grandfather Leif for a long time, finally leaving his house at ten o'clock that night.
The basic plan was set: the day after tomorrow Altair would invite them to take part through another banquet… The next morning.
In one of the Sheffield Family training rooms, Altair, who had just finished a bout of 'combat grappling', was straightening his clothes when he heard his 'combat tutor' Anastasia speak from behind him.
"It looks like you're about to surpass me in grappling."
Looking at his teacher, Altair gave a slight smile. "I don't feel I've reached the standard you mentioned."
"The main reason you have that impression is that when we met I knew nothing, and now I've only begun to pick up some techniques."
"If you went all-out, I doubt I'd last long."
Altair's words didn't change Anastasia's expression; she was as impassive as ever. "Among the nobles I've taught, you've lasted the longest and taken it most seriously."
Altair felt no pride at the remark. "I'm learning this not to prove anything, but because I need it myself. Other people's opinions are irrelevant; I only have to know my own requirements."
Perhaps because of those words, the usually indifferent Anastasia gave him an extra glance—but only two. Then she folded her arms. "Actually, there's no point in your learning this at all."
"It's no longer the old era. However well you master combat arts, they'll only ever be auxiliary; like cold weapons, they'll end up in museums and become history. It's the age of firearms now."
"And you're a noble—a female noble—so you need it even less."
Listening to Anastasia, Altair looked at the walls of the training room, where every kind of weapon was displayed: longswords, greatswords, lances, spears, and more.
He neither denied nor accepted her view. Firearms being superior to cold weapons was common knowledge among ordinary people—but this world was far from ordinary.
Altair walked to the wall and ran his fingers over the cold weapons. "Teacher Anastasia, I believe you're also a Beyonder. Do you truly agree with what you just said?"
"You must have seen high-Sequence, even demigod, fighters in action. Against existences like that, do you think current technology can cope?"
"Undeniably, the advent of firearms allows them to crush low-Sequence Beyonders. But against mid-Sequence ones, if the target refuses to engage, there's no way to keep them—unless, of course, that mid-Sequence fighter is brain-dead enough to take on an army head-on. As for high-Sequence foes, you'd need war machines deployed on a massive scale. Demigods and angels, strictly speaking, are no longer human…
"And that's only against Beyonders without peculiar abilities. When you meet those with bizarre powers, the advantage of guns drops sharply—or disappears altogether."
His speech didn't soften Anastasia's training regimen; she drilled him as ruthlessly as ever. By the end of the morning session his body looked as if it had been caught in a downpour—every inch soaked. After a bath and change of clothes he invited her to lunch and then saw her off.
Watching the departing carriage, the thoroughly battered Altair breathed a sigh of relief. He had talked too big that morning; showing off had only brought extra suffering on himself.
Now he could feel the ache all over; his hands had trembled even while eating. All he wanted was to go back to his room and soak in a medicinal bath to ease the pain. After seeing Anastasia off at noon, he returned to his room for a nap and didn't wake until two in the afternoon.
Thanks to his improved recovery, less than two hours of rest had restored him to normal—at least his hands no longer shook.
Coming downstairs, he saw the little maid Vera teasing the 'gift from Cousin' he had brought back yesterday.
The gift was unusual: a color-mutant leopard cub, 'Black Panther'. True to her name, she was pitch-black all over—like an oversized black cat.
As to which species she belonged, Altair wasn't sure; under sunlight no markings showed, making identification hard. She might even be an entirely new species—after all, who knew how many centuries had passed since the era he once knew.
Perhaps because the cub was newly born, or because of his Beast Tamer aptitude, the moment Altair let her out of the cage she clung to him, demanding play. Only after a long struggle last night had she tired herself out and allowed him to rest.
There was no question of professional training; a leopard cub the size of a house-cat couldn't have had any.
Maybe because the little maid spent so much time with him, the black panther now allowed only the two of them to pet her; anyone else risked being scratched or even bitten.
Altair adored the panther. Still a cub, she looked like a little black bear that stole cassocks—utterly endearing.
Being feline, she displayed typical cat behavior: while being massaged she purred a low "hrr-hrr", and whenever free she sought him out for another rub.
He hadn't yet decided on a name, simply calling her "Black Panther, Black Panther" for now.
As he descended the stairs Altair clapped his hands; hearing the sound, Black Panther ran over, hooked her claws into his clothes, and climbed into his arms.
Carrying her, he said while walking, "Looks like I'll have to trim your claws regularly—look how you've shredded my coat."
In his arms the panther tilted her head, playing innocent and purring "hrr-hrr" to escape blame.
Seeing that, Altair knew she understood him; apparently he had perfectly inherited the Beast Tamer potion's abilities.
In a few months, when she was bigger, he could give her a potion as well—though the choice puzzled him.
Of the Omniscient-and-Omnipotent five, most were out: a Spectator panther, Sailor panther, or knowledge-type panther simply wouldn't fit.
The "sneaky three"—Seer, Door, Marauder—were equally unsuitable.
Hive, Devil, Order, Fate paths didn't appeal either.
Only the Space-Time Unity and parts of the Calamity Pathway seemed worth considering.