The brief conversation with Shona—and a passing-by Mondatta—proved to be less than fruitful. The knight told him to stay in his room if possible, which was what he planned to do anyway, lacking a better option. Shaun of all people also spoke up to support the idea. Some things just did not need to be given too much thought: ‘Night of Carnage’ was as sinister of a name as they came, and the poet did not want anything to do with it. Still, he feared for his peers, the Infinites he got to know and grow fond of already in such short period of time. Losing even one of them would have been nothing short of a personal tragedy, but perhaps if someone had to die, then—
Ah, no no. These were the kind of thoughts to avoid.
Daimyon walked out of the break room shortly after. Business awaited him in his room: he left Untethered at a point he would not have left it were it not for this important meeting. Also, Mary asked him to help her compose a poem—a love letter, specifically, for the love of her heart...Caora. He was, admittedly, thoroughly amused by the two's complicated and very one-sided relationship, so he accepted the offer. They did not agree to a specific time of meeting yet, but he made a mental note to visit her as soon as possible; tomorrow perchance. For now he had more pressing matters: though the prose-poem hybrid was quite engaging, he also had the strange autobiography from the library he had promised the others to read through. While he was there, he also wished to refresh his memory on the rules, or lack thereof, of the upcoming Night of Carnage. Just to be safe.
As it is said: a busy mind is a worriless mind.
He allowed himself two more chapters of Untethered before tearing himself away from it.
“All right...” he sighed and took the other book from the table. “Let's see what world will you take me to.”
Right after opening up the cover he ran into his first surprise: the first page was torn out. Somehow he did not notice this when he skimmed over it in the library... His disappointment rose into curiosity as he read the first words of the second, thankfully completely intact, page:
‘Okay! With the introduction out of the way, I guess I should make some notes about...’
This could not be misunderstood: the identity of the main character was detailed on that torn-out page. Daimyon's mind soared thinking about the possibilities. Sure, the book was not in the best condition: the letters on the cover have all but disintegrated over time and its pages were also slightly yellowed and frail to the touch despite the protection. Still! It could not have been older than, say, twenty years. If it was an ancient tome, he would have understood the missing content. But like this? Especially that it was the very first, often the most important page of the book... He could not just enjoy it like this! There had to be some outsider influence in this. A previous careless reader? Most probably.
But that was not nearly exciting enough!
So he kept on reading.
‘Some people might say I'm dumb. I'm not! I just look at the world in a different way. That's just who I am!’
Comments like this and many others filled the pages which described the day-to-day life of who Daimyon deduced to be a high-school girl. Books of this genre—diary-style with a relatable protagonist and lots of zany everyday situations—have been consistently popular among young readers. He was not a personal fan—and no, not because of his age!—, and even had a satiric poem about how...dime a dozen most of these works were. This one seemed even more disorganised than the standard. It also had numerous entries for every single day, which the poet found counter-productive to whatever plot the author was aiming for. At least the main character was relatable enough: carefree, imaginative, sometimes ditzy. She reminded Daimyon of himself in the good old days...
He found that it would take entirely too long to read through every single one of these random comments, so he skipped a good chunk. Soon enough he discovered that after a while, the text abruptly ended. What followed was only blank page after blank page, waiting to be filled ink...
...until there was text again. Or more precisely, the next page started with a large title in decorated capital letters.
‘PLACES’
In stark contrast to the previous style, the writing here was organised into neat blocks, taking up about half a page each. Some entries had a sketch to accompany them and all of them were about, as the title said, the places the protagonist spent most of their time at. They were nothing out of the ordinary: there was a dormitory room, some classrooms, a doctor's office, public venues...
And yet, Daimyon could not get his eyes off the text. The descriptions! They were so richly detailed, down to the minutest, most mundane things... He could very well imagine himself being there, just from reading. Now, he could not figure out why there was the need for such—
—wait a minute.
In that crucial moment, his train of thought was cut off by the monitor in his room suddenly lighting up.
The Night of Carnage was on and the group was already in deep trouble. One of them, Calvin the metalsmith, was somehow captured by Monokuma and his posse. The man was shown tied up with weapons pointed at him. The bear made ominous threats, showing that he very much intended to keep what he had said earlier, about killing someone if a hero did not show themselves tonight...
Daimyon left the book on his bed and sprung up right away. His burst of decisiveness ran out with that though, and he paced up and down in his room for the next couple of minutes. The gears in his mind ground persistently as he pondered about what he should do. He had to admit, he still barely knew Calvin and he has not talked with him personally before—but he was one of his fellow Infinites regardless! To force him into such a sorry state... This could not continue! He could not just...die there!
And yet, what was he going to do? Head out there and confront the manic robotic bear all on his own? Ah yes, a great many poets and bards have sung about brave heroes...but he was not made from that material. He was easy-going, but not foolish. He had a rich imagination, but was not delusional. The most difference he could have made was by ‘volunteering’ himself...but it was already too late for that.
Staying in his room was the safest approach. Even with the removal of the break-in prohibition, he was the most protected here. If anyone came, he could prepare. Not like he could put up a worthy fight against some of the stronger Infinites here...but at least he would have his swan song, as was worth for an artist. But he did not even need to think about that. He had plenty to occupy himself with here: Untethered, the diary, his own poems... He needed not to care one bit about the carnage that went down outside.
Ah, what cowardice! Could he ever forgive himself if Calvin died tonight and he did not at least try to intervene? He lived his life always trying to be on the best of terms with everyone he met, and he was going to change that now? What if there were others also in danger? He could not simply sit idly when his friends were threatened!
Mustering what determination he could, he slowly walked up to the entrance of his room.
“To face despair I go... To save a friend I go...” he hummed to himself as he opened the door, even slower. “To fight the evils of tonight...and hopefully come back alive!”