Whiteriver steps to the other side of the room, where a brown cloak hangs from a stand. Another stand to the left of it is empty. He replaces his yellow-tinted armor with the brown cloak, and re-attaches his hilt. He sheathes a clear, crystal dagger and a diamond sword, and picks up the redstone sphere from his desk.
Whiteriver gently brushes the sphere with the tips of his fingers, while staring into it intently. His eyes glow white, and his face turns pale.
Whiteriver warns, his voice echoing with ancient authority, "I am about to summon my superior, a servant of the Lord known as a Caretaker, who is beyond that which you mortal nonbelievers are worthy to look upon or know their name. You must leave this room at once, and wait outside."
Chevron nods in understanding. "Of course."
We make haste through the door. Dan closes the door behind us. The numerous Aether Guard skeletons study us.
One skeleton asks, "Did the necromancer terminate his relationship with you and kick you out? And if so, does that mean we can kill you?"
"Not this time," Chevron clarifies. "Whiteriver simply has some unfinished business with his superior."
Another skeleton sighs. "We never get to have any fun around here."
A few minutes later, in a brazen violation of the conservation of mass, Whiteriver steps out of the room with two other humans. Two eccentrically evil-looking, female battle magi now stand beside the brown-cloaked Whiteriver. The one on the left has a large and frizzy head of auburn hair, a dirty face, and dangerously muscular fists. The one on the right has jet-black hair, and a fondess of black as an accent color. Nearly every accent and accessory she could have is dyed black: from her lips, to her piercings and jewelery, to her painted nails. No black eyeshadow, though. I guess she's more optimistic than that. Both wear obsidian armor studded with rubies and covered with red cloth, reminiscient of Bluesteel's city guard, although the city guard armor is generally made of iron or diamond.
"City guard armor? That will no doubt fit in," Chevron remarks. "Except for the fact that it's constructed with obsidian, which I doubt is legal according to the WOC."
Whiteriver remarks, "Indeed. Overseer Arfun is abyss mage." He points to the woman with a taste for black. "...and Mage Mason, a servant of mine, is a life mage." He points to the wild and tough woman. "Their Overworld clothing appropriately indicates their level of human magic skill, any legal deviations necessary for protection from void magic. Due to your unusual demands, I have foregone the more obvious choices of a handful of soul experts and master summoners. The Overseer and Mage's greater familiarity with the mortal realm will reduce the risk of side-casualities but also increase our risk of failure."
"I do appreciate you putting in the effort."
"Thankfulness is a pointless behavior by souls which falsely believe their pleasure is of value to higher beings," Whiteriver states with confident authority. After basking in this moment of pride, Whiteriver's face twitches into confusion for a moment. "Ah. Yes, I see the irony. I am a higher being, yet I appear to acknowledge the needs of a lesser one for which I am incapable of empathizing with."
Arfun says, "She's so insolent! I would never tolerate her behavior in my citadel."
Mason chuckles. "I'd like to see you try running a city as big as Bluesteel."
Arfun frowns. "This city is long overdue for a purge. Its population is far too big."
"Come on, you can come up with better than mass murder."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are." Mason gazes at us with misanthropic desire and grins, revealing large, yellow teeth. "And I'm all for it! But still..."
Whiteriver snarls, "If you so much as spill a drop of blood in the Overworld during this mission without my command, I swear on the Lord it will be the last thing you ever remember!"
Shaken by Whiteriver's threat, the two evil magi avert their gaze and pretend to be mentally occupied.
Whiteriver nods reassuringly toward Chevron. "I will place an order with my arms division to equip you and the other two. Not because I care about you, but because the contract requires it."
I hold my tongue. There is an uncanny ugliness to twisted minds which speak fantasies of murder with such eagerness. When I left the Red Aether and respawned, I wished I would never have to witness beings like Arfun and Mason again.
Whiteriver, on the other hand... while his morals are far from pure, I can see why Chevron trusts him. I hope he keeps the violent sensibilities of his evil companions in check.


I'll admit, when I heard Whiteriver say, 'arms division,' I was imagining something a bit less... industrial. But I should have known better.
The titanic building which looms ahead of us is dark grey with no reflections. It is wide, brutalist, and geometric; with towering spires which would not look a bit out of place in the hammiest illustrations of dystopian post-industrial fiction novels. Black smoke billows from narrow columns on top of the spires, coating the sky above us with an ominous, dark brown shadow. The air down here is breatheable, but unpleasant. Countless coal-fired factories, like this one, operate without remorse, their smog giving the Red Aether its name. It's hard to not acknowledge the irony that Herobrinian servants, supposedly sworn to protect nature from humanity, so readily pollute the world of the dead with technology that humanity is due to invent. Maybe it's done out of spite.
About a dozen Aether Guard skeletons can be seen in front of a solid metal factory gate. A dozen or more stand in watchtowers on either side of the gate and inside the complex. Whiteriver's hand merely twiches, and in response, the factory gate hums mechanically and shudders open, its hinges moaning like an awoken ancient beast. Beyond the metal gate is a smaller but still massive, metal-reinforced wooden double door. A few of the skeleton guards closest to the gate step aside to allow us to pass.
Whiteriver gestures for Mason, the unkempt yet strong mage, to lead the way. Mason walks across the inner perimiter and dramatically breaches the factory doors with both hands, and we trickle through the opening between the doors as they slowly creak further open.
Inside is a huge, ugly room full of support columns, beneath which countless rows of impatient metal machines and scalding furnaces roar, and countless zombies toil to appease them. Every single one of those zombies was a human once. Now, they are tormented with disease, and yet they can never rest, and divine orders compel them to work forever. Metal tools, weapons, and armor can be seen in various stages of production on an industrial scale. At this scale, even if the zombies still had their magic of crafting, they would not outpace these soulless machines. This factory alone would enough to supply an army, but if the omnipresent red sky is any indication, it is one of many.
I hear the wooden gate creak as Mason closes the double door behind us.
In the front, near a pack of zombies hauling raw materials, a brown-cloaked human servant, most likely a necromancer, guards four armor stands of obsidian-black armor. Adjacent to the armor stands is a rack of swords sheathed in leather. The dark handles poking out of the sheaths hint at equally strong obsidian within.
The cloaked servant kneels down on one knee and bows to Whiteriver.
"Overseer, these are the armor and swords, as you have requested."
Whiteriver steps forward and inspects the armor stand on the far left.
"The one on the far left is mine. The rest of the equipment is for the outsiders," Whiteriver says.
Whiteriver then nods toward us.
Whiteriver tells us, "Take your respective armor and swords and assess their quality. They are obsidian-plated to protect you from voidfire, and have been forged with runes inside of them, so they do not require enchantment. If the human equipment is less than perfect..." Whiteriver's eyes gesture subtly toward the cloaked servant. "I demand to know why immediately. However, the equipment for the ender is provided as-is. My arms division does not produce equipment for ender, and it's not going to start doing that."
Whiteriver gives me an appropriate glance of contempt. That's a harsh no-refund policy for me. I can't say I'm surprised.
"That's alright with me," I tell Whiteriver. "It's probably best if I continue using my iron gear instead. It's less likely to arouse suspicion with the demon when I speak with Fristad. Besides, I'm immune to void magic."
"I never assigned you in charge of this demon hunt, Ender," Whiteriver snaps.
Chevron counters, "My assistant has a point. His immunity to void magic makes him a better choice for the reconnaisance phase."
"Very well," Whiteriver says. He orders to the brown-cloaked servant, "Put the ender's armor and sword away. I will decide what to do with those later.
The brown-cloaked servant does as Whiteriver commands.
Chevron steps forward to test the new armor. She folds and hangs her red robe over the rack of swords, and dons her obsidian-plated armor pieces consecutively. As she lets go of the last helmet piece, she closes her eyes and sighs with satisfaction. "Masterfully crafted. I approve." She retrieves her red robe.
"Are they really?" Dan is still skeptical as he fastens his leggings. He lets go and stares at the obsidian implements now resting upon his legs. "Oh."
"It's a trial to find a high quality diamond smith," Chevron says. "But this is on another plane. And I'm certain it's not WOC-approved."
"Once again, this armor is indeed not legal in the Overworld," Whiteriver insists as he dons his own new obsidian armor. "Do not reveal its source."
"You said it was obsidian-plated. What's the material underneath?" Chevron asks.
"It's mostly iron."
"Being friends with a necromancer certainly has its perks," Dan rubs it in.
Chevron consoles, "I assure you that this is not typical treatment from a necromancer."
"It is hardly typical, especially since I do not form friendships. And you still have to pay for them," Whiteriver stipulates. "That part wasn't in the contract. Three times the Bluesteel market value for diamond equipment, per standard policy. And that includes the equipment which the ender rejected."
Chevron gawks, visibly offended at the price, but she does not offer a retort.
"That's per Bluesteel Overseer Whiteriver's standard policy, in case you were curious," Mason says, grinning with arms crossed. "You better be nice to him, or else he might jack the price up. And that'll be the least of your problems."
Chevron grins. "That's a cute threat, but I've known Overseer Whiteriver longer than you've been alive, and he's not the only person I know." She nods to Whiteriver. "I believe we're properly equipped. Let's find Fristad."


Whiteriver closes his eyes, raises his hands into the shape of an upside-down V, and meditates briefly. He then lowers his hands and sighs. "A demon crossing jurisdictions is the last thing I need right now."
Whiteriver snaps his fingers and we are plunged into darkness. Red sparks briefly float outward from our bodies. The darkness then fades to reveal we are at the edge of a train tunnel.
"By Jeb," Dan proclaims. "I would consider that an upgrade from my teleport spell."
Dan is right. That was impressive. Six people teleported at once, and he didn't even have to touch us to make us teleport with him.
"Yes, my allegiance does come with many benefits. Let's not dwell on the comparisons. And don't forget that void magic is illegal here." Whiteriver says.
Whiteriver leads us out of the tunnel. We climb up from the train tracks, and we find ourselves near the entrance of the Bluesteel Inter-Claim Station. The namesake is carved into the station's stone brick facade with gigantic, stately letters. The tall facade is separated from the roof above by intricate cornices of dark wrought iron, with touches of plated gold on the tips of the iron and in two thin strips above and below the cornice design. Trains from distant cities pass through this station daily, carrying thousands of passengers an hour. Many of such prospective and former passengers now rush in and out of the building. A hidden redstone mechanism adjusts the sizes of the entrance and exit passages. The entrance on the left has been made bigger to accommodate the customers rushing to board the next train.
Whiteriver declares, "The demon is currently panhandling in Carshelter, likely to gather funds for a train ride. I will buy tickets for the train the demon intends to ride. We will observe the demon from both ends of the train, while the Ender learns more about the demon through direct questioning. If the man named Fristad attacks, fight back, but do not kill him. The goal is to capture and destroy the demon, and only the demon."