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The others, surprisingly, accepted the woman Daimyon had nominated to safeguard the chest. They held one more examination of its contents: the girl with the intense eyes was looking for something in there. The poet had no wish of seeing all the murder inside, so he bid the group farewell—expressing his hope for a better day tomorrow—and started walking back to his room. Rounding the hallway, he ran into two more women, recognising one of them as Jezebel. His notes about the happenings of the past few days mentioned how it was the clown who allowed Thomas to get Marianne's handbook, so he could start executing his plan. Though he understood that, for the plot to progress, she had to act this way, he still harboured some bitterness. He gave the two a nod as he walked past, and that was it. 

He was almost to his room when he heard someone let out a long...moan? His heart skipped a beat as he turned around to see who it was—and his surprise did not abate when he found that it was not a human facing him. It was a black-and-white machine, just like Monokuma, but female. Daimyon remembered reading off-hand in the brief minutes before he was spurred to action that these female robots also had a name, but it eluded him at the moment.

[color=seagreen]“What is it...what is it that you want?”[/color]
He was beyond asking for names.

She first explained to him how she fought and killed Calvin. That finally gave some form of reference to the poet: with Monokuma's ghastly ‘announcement’ still echoing in his ears, he knew that he was talking to Kyra.

[color=seagreen]“So you have, you—”[/color] He cut himself off. [color=seagreen]“And why are you here? Am I next?”[/color]

Kyra shook her head.
[b]“He had one last request.”[/b]
From her bosom—too much of Daimyon's day revolved around chests and he did not like it—she pulled out a bloody book. It was smaller than most books, about the size but thinner than his own treasured notebook.

[color=seagreen]“[i]He[/i] wanted to give me this?”[/color] the poet asked back. [color=seagreen]“Curious...”[/color]
He knew he did not have much of a choice. Technically, he could have simply declined the item. But it was a [i]mysterious book[/i] covered with [i]bloodstains[/i]. Entirely too conspicuous not to be important. Too [i]‘iconic’[/i], as the robot herself said. So he took it gingerly, making sure the blood did not get on his hands. With her delivery done, the robot started walking away.
[color=seagreen]“Wait...Kyra,”[/color] Daimyon called after her. [color=seagreen]“Send Davis my regards. I have a...feeling that we will see each other again soon.”[/color]

With that farewell, he stepped into his room. The door clicked shut, the book hit the table, and Daimyon sat down. He let out a sigh of exhaustion: looking at the clock, then at the bed, he had second thoughts. His tired body screamed at him to let it rest, but he steeled himself. His work for the day, though already plentiful, was not yet done.

He examined the book. Its front cover was black, its back white, further cementing the idea in Daimyon's head that it was important. On the front were two handwritten words: ‘Memory Notebook’. It was distinctly [i]not[/i] the poet's handwriting, else he would have believed that, with such a title, the notebook was his. There was a long stain of recently-dried blood running down on the cover—Calvin's blood. Daimyon took a deep breath. There was no question whether he would open it, but he did feel like he needed some preparation. Like any good explorer, a reader also needed to be well-equipped for the journey that was diving into a book. In a moment, he was poring through his own notebook, flipping through pages in search of anything that might help him in tackling the book. Besides, he had a gut feeling that this was not his first time encountering this particular document: it seemed like such a huge plot device that it must have been at least foreshadowed earlier. His authorial instincts proved correct, and he found entries about his work on a mysterious diary that he had titled the [i]‘Ryoshi Membook’[/i]. There were, in fact, several pages on it: each detailing the hardships and slow progress in decoding the Membook, which the poet had deemed crucial to understanding the group's predicament. What was more, his work on it was also intertwined with his entanglement with Marianne. Thinking quickly, he opened the drawer on his table—and, indeed, there was a book lying inside, below the stack of letters he knew were from the late botanist. He pulled out the book: its dark cover was tattered, the handwritten letters barely legible. Only with some imagination could he make out ‘Ryoshi Membook’. Looking from that to his new acquisition, it became clear that they were one and the same, except the latter was much newer. This meant that the ‘Membook’ was really a ‘Memory Notebook’. But what was ‘Ryoshi’?

All of these revelations threw log after log to the fire of his curiosity, which then burned hotter than perhaps ever before. He opened the notebook. On the first page, there was a name, written in lovely cursive: [i]Ryoko Otonashi.[/i]
[color=seagreen]“The [i]Ryoko Otonashi Memory Notebook[/i]...”[/color] Daimyon murmured. To think, that after all the hard work in trying to put together even just the title, all he had to do was wait for the complete version to fall into his lap... It mattered little now. Shrugging off his growing tiredness, he delved into the pages of the notebook.

He spent the next hour reading, engrossed from page to page. His observations from the old version were proven mostly correct: the book was the diary of a high school girl named Ryoko Otonashi. That was the cursory summary. But Daimyon soon found out much more. As he moved through the pages, he diligently took reading notes of the important details: how she attended a place called Hope's Peak Academy, how her grades were failing, how she always seemed to show ‘natural cheerfulness’ and a general lack of interest in the world around her... Then about how this all was because of a ‘unique neurological disorder’ that caused her to be very, very forgetful, about how she had to attend numerous treatments and how she promptly fell in love with the one who was treating her.

At that point Daimyon had to pause. There was a checklist floating before his mind's eye, and the items on it were being checked with terrifying speed.

He skipped to the end section, expecting something. And there it was: pages upon pages of ordered, detailed descriptions of people and places. Appearances, personalities...their relations to Ryoko. After seeing that, he did the same in his own notebook, opening the last few pages. His last dozen or so entries were all about Infinites, with quick notes about locations of interest within the hospital mixed in.

The poet could not help but let out a sad chuckle. Everything fit, perfectly. He could have written that Memory Notebook—after all, he had his own. There was just one thing Ryoko's lacked that his had. He moved back to the very first page of his notebook.

[hider=The first page]
[color=seagreen]
Good morning.

First of all, do NOT panic. You are confused, perhaps disoriented, and that is fine. You have the exact same mix of emotions every morning. I know because I [i]am[/i] you. Again, do not panic. Read the next lines carefully, and you will understand everything.

You are [b]Daimyon Londe[/b], a [32]-year-old Japanese-American man. You currently live [alone] in [a small house in the Twin Cities, Minnesota]. You are an accomplished poet recognised by the Infinity Initiative, an organisation that gathers talented people around the world. Through their blessing you bear the title ‘Infinite Poet’. You make a living through your poetry and have several best-selling collections.

You have [u]anterograde amnesia[/u]. It means that you are unable to retain new memories: every night when you fall asleep, your brain resets and you forget everything. You forget who you are, what you do, who your friends are, everything. This page, and this whole notebook, are here to help you get through daily life with at least some semblance of dignity and normality. There should always be a pen attached to this notebook—use it to write frequently and in detail. Whenever your notebook fills up, get a new one and copy over this page and any others you find relevant at the time. This is your weapon to keep your condition from ruling your life.

You suffered an almost-fatal accident more than a decade ago. It was a miracle that you recovered, and it came at the cost of your memory. Initially, you suffered with total amnesia and had forgotten how to even read and write. It took you several months and countless therapy sessions to relearn what you had lost, and to strengthen your mind enough that you could establish a baseline of skills that persevere through your daily ‘reset’. You have, in the greatest part, a woman named [i]Dr Maya Morandi[/i] to thank for your recovery. She is not in your life and has not been for a long while—her name is preserved here purely as thanks for what she had done for you.

After finishing this page, continue to the next ones where major events in your life are noted in a timeline. They will give you a better feel for who you are and what you have done. Then, skip to the end of this notebook where you write about the people you know and the places you have been. You are popular and have a number of friends, accomplishments you are very proud of. They—and the world at large—know nothing about your amnesia, and you have decided to keep it that way. To succeed in keeping your secret, you must dedicate enough time (at least an hour) every morning to catch up on what you must know for the given day. It is a tedious process and might frustrate you sometimes, but it must be done.

Living with your condition, in general, is terribly difficult. But remember that it is never all negative. Your accident might have robbed you of your memory, but it gave you a unique perspective that makes you who you are today and that gives you the tools you need to share it with the world. Whenever you feel discouraged, just remember that you brighten up the days of millions.

[u]You vowed never to let anterograde amnesia define or defeat you.[/u] You vowed to live a full and fulfilling life and leave behind a legacy to remember. And I know you can do it.

I know I can do it.
[/color]
[/hider]


Rereading the page made Daimyon feel strange. He always felt that his condition, being so rare, made him unique in the world. Yet here he was, reading about someone suffering from quite obviously the same thing. The book drew his attention once more; he was curious to see what happened to Ryoko.

It took him about half an hour more to get to a point where he could not continue anymore. What was before a resonating solidarity with the high school girl turned into rising disgust in the poet. He found out that Ryoko was a [i]cover[/i]: a fake personality invented and artificially enforced by someone else inhabiting the same body. The name of that someone was one of the last words he had read before he stopped: [i]Junko Enoshima.[/i]

That name rang no bells for the poet; he doubted there was anything about her in his notebook either. No, what bothered him so was the possibility that the same thing might have been happening to him. What if Daimyon Londe was also a cover, a pleasant face hiding someone far more sinister beneath? And, even worse, how would he prove that was not the case? As absurd as the idea seemed, the same meta-logic that carried him through this day meant that he could not discard the thought. After all, it would make for a fine plot twist—so fine even [i]he[/i] would not expect it.

He looked at the clock: it was just past 3 am. The exhaustion he had managed to keep under control was pushing up against him again. This time, he did not have the willpower to fight it. He used his last bit to take his pen, return to the first page of his notebook, and write after ‘...you brighten up the days of millions’: [color=seagreen][i]‘You are a good person.’[/i][/color]

Closing the Memory Notebook and bringing his own to the bedside table, he carried himself to bed. Thoughts kept racing in his head even as he closed his eyes. He wanted what he had always dreaded. He wanted a reset.