Chapter 101: Grimmjow Vs Ulquiorra
"Answer my question, Grimmjow!"
The voice cut through the oppressive silence of the narrow corridor like a blade, cold and unwavering. Ulquiorra's pale form gradually materialized from the deeper shadows of Hueco Mundo's labyrinthine passages, his imposing figure blocking the sparse moonlight that filtered through the cracks in the ancient stone walls. The darkness seemed to bend around him, responding to the suffocating weight of his spiritual pressure as he approached the small group with measured, deliberate steps.
His emerald eyes, devoid of any warmth or emotion, fixed upon the azure-haired Espada with the kind of unwavering focus that spoke of absolute certainty. Each footfall echoed ominously in the confined space, the sound reverberating off the weathered walls like a death knell.
"Ulquiorra... what I want to do is none of your damn business!"
Grimmjow's initial flash of nervous tension quickly morphed into his characteristic savage grin, though the slight tremor in his clenched fists betrayed the unease he felt in the presence of his superior. His cerulean eyes blazed with defiant fury as he shifted into a more aggressive stance, muscles coiling like a predator preparing to strike. The air around him began to shimmer with barely contained reiatsu, causing small fragments of stone to crumble from the ceiling above.
"You shouldn't be here," Grimmjow continued, his voice taking on a mocking tone despite the underlying tension. "Didn't Master Aizen explicitly order that all Espada ranked fourth and above remain within the confines of Las Noches? Or have you suddenly developed selective hearing, Ulquiorra?"
The Sexta Espada's entire body had shifted into a state of combat readiness, every nerve ending alive with anticipation. His azure eyes narrowed to predatory slits as he studied Ulquiorra's approaching form, searching for any tell-tale sign of an impending attack. The familiar thrill of potential violence sang through his veins, temporarily overriding his concern for the injured Shinigami behind him.
"Ahh... I truly don't care what pathetic schemes you're concocting, Grimmjow," Ulquiorra replied with his characteristic emotionless monotone, his pale finger extending to point directly at the trembling form of Inoue Orihime. The girl was kneeling beside Kurosaki Ichigo's battered form, her healing powers manifesting as twin golden shields that pulsed with warm, life-giving energy.
"However, that woman," he continued, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority, "is something that Aizen-sama has entrusted specifically to my care. Therefore, I will be taking her with me. Your interference in this matter is both unnecessary and unwelcome."
The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop several degrees as Ulquiorra spoke, his reiatsu pressing against the walls like an invisible vise. Dust motes hung suspended in the air, as if afraid to move in the presence of such overwhelming spiritual pressure.
"And what if I say..." Grimmjow's voice dropped to a dangerous growl as his body instinctively shifted into a predatory crouch, "absolutely not?"
His fingers curved into razor-sharp claws, the bone-white extensions gleaming menacingly in the dim light. Every muscle in his lean frame was coiled tight as a spring, ready to explode into violent motion at a moment's notice. The familiar rush of anticipation flooded through him—the intoxicating promise of battle that had always been his greatest addiction.
Observing Grimmjow's aggressive posturing with the same interest one might show a mildly curious insect, Ulquiorra simply continued his methodical approach toward Inoue Orihime. His movements were fluid and purposeful, each step calculated to demonstrate his complete dismissal of the threat the Sexta Espada posed. To him, Grimmjow's fury was nothing more than the impotent rage of a child throwing a tantrum.
"Are you courting death, Ulquiorra?!"
The raw fury in Grimmjow's voice reached a fever pitch as Ulquiorra's blatant contempt finally shattered his remaining self-control. Brilliant azure light erupted from his fingertips like liquid lightning, condensed reiatsu taking the form of deadly energy claws that sliced through the air toward Ulquiorra's unprotected back. The attack moved with such speed that it left glowing afterimages in its wake, the very air screaming as it was torn apart by the concentrated spiritual energy.
But Ulquiorra had been expecting this response—perhaps even counting on it. With fluid grace that belied his seemingly casual demeanor, he pivoted on his heel, his body moving with the precision of a master swordsman. The deadly energy claws passed harmlessly through the space where he had been standing mere milliseconds before, instead carving deep gouges into the ancient stone wall beyond.
In the same motion, Ulquiorra's right hand emerged from his pocket with serpentine swiftness, pale fingers wrapping around Grimmjow's extended arm like a steel trap. The contrast between their spiritual pressures was immediately apparent—where Grimmjow's reiatsu burned hot and chaotic like wildfire, Ulquiorra's was cold and absolute, like the depths of an arctic ocean.
"You don't seem particularly attached to this hand," Ulquiorra observed with clinical detachment, his grip tightening with enough force to make Grimmjow's bones creak ominously.
Before the Sexta Espada could respond, Ulquiorra's free hand formed a precise knife-edge and struck with lightning speed. The blow connected with Grimmjow's solar plexus with surgical precision, driving all the air from his lungs in a explosive gasp. As Grimmjow's body folded forward involuntarily, a mixture of saliva and bile erupting from his mouth, Ulquiorra's fingers found his throat with predatory efficiency.
The pale digits pressed against Grimmjow's windpipe with just enough pressure to make breathing difficult without cutting off his air supply entirely. It was a calculated display of dominance—a reminder of exactly who held the superior position in Las Noches' hierarchy.
"I'm warning you one final time, Grimmjow," Ulquiorra stated with the same emotional investment one might show when commenting on the weather. "Do not interfere with my duties again."
Having delivered his message with characteristic efficiency, Ulquiorra released his grip and resumed his advance toward Inoue Orihime. His footsteps remained as measured and deliberate as before, as if the brief violent exchange had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience—like brushing aside a cobweb.
Behind him, Grimmjow struggled to regain his footing, one hand massaging his bruised throat while his azure eyes burned with humiliated rage. Every fiber of his being screamed for retaliation, but even through his fury, he understood the gulf in their respective power levels. Ulquiorra hadn't even bothered to release his Zanpakutō, much less access his Resurrección form.
"Tell me," Ulquiorra said as he came to stand before the kneeling girl, his emerald gaze boring into her with unsettling intensity, "do you truly believe you can save him?"
Inoue Orihime's hands trembled as she maintained her healing technique, the golden energy of her Sōten Kisshun flickering like candleflames in a strong wind. The overwhelming presence of the Cuarta Espada pressed down upon her like a physical weight, making it difficult to breathe, much less concentrate on her healing abilities.
"Have you already forgotten how you came to be in this place?" Ulquiorra continued, his voice carrying an undertone of cruel amusement. "Have you forgotten the circumstances that brought you to Hueco Mundo, and the promises you made?"
The spiritual pressure emanating from Ulquiorra's form was suffocating in its intensity, far beyond anything Inoue had experienced before. It felt ancient and terrible, like standing at the edge of an abyss that promised nothing but endless darkness. Fear crept up her spine with icy fingers, making her healing shields waver dangerously.
Seeing his companion threatened once again, Kurosaki Ichigo struggled to push himself upright despite his numerous injuries. His spiritual energy flickered weakly around him like the dying embers of a once-mighty fire, but his determination remained as fierce as ever. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he attempted to summon enough strength to intervene.
"Ulquiorra!"
Grimmjow's voice exploded through the corridor like a thunderclap, raw with fury and wounded pride. The humiliation of being so casually dismissed had finally pushed him beyond the bounds of rational thought. His reiatsu flared wildly around him, azure flames of spiritual energy licking at the walls and ceiling as his emotions reached a boiling point.
Without warning, a crimson Cero erupted from Grimmjow's extended palm, the concentrated beam of destruction tearing through the narrow space with devastating force. The air itself seemed to burn as the attack carved its way toward Ulquiorra's back, leaving a trail of superheated atmosphere in its wake.
To everyone's amazement, Ulquiorra made no attempt to dodge. Instead, he simply raised his left hand with casual indifference, allowing the Cero to impact against his palm directly. The collision sent shockwaves through the corridor, causing cracks to spider-web across the ancient stones, but the Cuarta Espada remained unmoved—a pale statue standing against a crimson tide.
The raw destructive energy of Grimmjow's Cero was absorbed and dispersed by Ulquiorra's hierro with contemptuous ease, the attack proving about as effective as throwing pebbles at a mountain. Smoke curled from his palm where the energy had made contact, but his expression remained as emotionlessly serene as ever.
However, the few seconds it took for Ulquiorra to neutralize the attack provided just enough of a distraction for the others to act. Moving with desperate efficiency born of their dire circumstances, Grimmjow scooped up both Ichigo and Inoue in his arms and leaped toward the narrow opening that led to the outside world.
"You're not escaping that easily," Ulquiorra murmured, his emerald eyes tracking their movement with predatory focus.
He was preparing to pursue when the air in front of him suddenly erupted with brilliant azure light. Grimmjow's Gran Rey Cero, a technique that dwarfed his previous attack in both size and destructive potential, came screaming through the confined space like a miniature star gone supernova. The walls themselves began to melt under the intense heat, and the very air seemed to catch fire.
This time, Ulquiorra was forced to respond with genuine effort. His own finger extended, and a lance of midnight-black energy erupted forth to meet the incoming attack. The collision between the two Ceros created a spectacular light show, azure and obsidian energies wrestling for dominance while the entire corridor shook under the strain of containing such massive forces.
When the light finally faded and the smoke cleared, Ulquiorra found himself alone in the damaged corridor. Through the gaps in the stone walls, he could see Grimmjow standing in the desert beyond, a small black cube held aloft in his palm. Their eyes met for a brief moment across the distance, and Grimmjow's savage grin was clearly visible even through the intervening shadows.
"Grimmjow, you bastard," Ulquiorra said with the first trace of actual emotion he had shown since arriving—a subtle note of annoyance creeping into his usually monotone voice.
With deliberate malice, Grimmjow crushed the black cube in his fist. The effect was immediate and dramatic—the opening to the outside world began to seal itself, stone flowing like liquid to close off the only exit from the dark dimensional space. Within moments, Ulquiorra found himself trapped within what was essentially a pocket dimension, cut off from both Las Noches and the outside world.
The Cuarta Espada examined his prison with clinical interest, his pale fingers trailing along the newly-formed walls as he tested their structural integrity. The craftsmanship was impressive, he had to admit—a fusion of Garganta manipulation techniques and advanced Kido that would take considerable time and effort to break through, even for someone of his caliber.
Outside in the endless white desert of Hueco Mundo, Grimmjow allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as he surveyed the three individuals he had just rescued. The dimensional trap had worked exactly as Fiander and Ran had designed it—a modified Garganta that could serve as either a prison for rebellious Arrancar or a temporary holding cell for particularly dangerous enemies.
"That dark space will only contain Ulquiorra temporarily," Grimmjow explained to Ichigo, his voice carrying a note of grim satisfaction despite the underlying tension. "It was developed by Fiander and Ran using Menos Grande spatial manipulation techniques as a foundation. The thing can be used to discipline unruly Arrancar or trap enemies when necessary."
He gestured toward the sealed entrance with casual indifference, though his azure eyes remained alert for any signs that Ulquiorra might be attempting to break free ahead of schedule.
"That sudden imprisonment you experienced earlier? That was Ulquiorra's handiwork. He's been keeping you on a very short leash at Aizen's request."
Standing there in the pale moonlight of Hueco Mundo's eternal night, Grimmjow was surrounded by an aura that spoke of profound isolation. His current actions could be interpreted as nothing less than outright betrayal of both Las Noches and Aizen himself. He had abandoned his post, interfered with a superior officer's mission, and actively worked against the interests of his own faction.
Yet despite the magnitude of his transgression, Grimmjow felt no regret. The hunger for a proper battle—a fair fight against Kurosaki Ichigo without interference or manipulation—burned within him like a sacred flame. It was worth any punishment Aizen might devise, worth any consequences that might follow.
"Thank you, Grimmjow," Ichigo said with genuine gratitude, struggling to maintain his upright position despite his numerous injuries. "I know what this means for you, and I promise we'll have that fair fight you've been wanting."
The orange-haired Shinigami's spiritual pressure was still dangerously low, but his determination blazed as fiercely as ever. Even battered and bleeding, he radiated the same stubborn resolve that had carried him through countless battles against seemingly impossible odds.
"Stop talking and let the woman heal you already!" Grimmjow snapped, though there was no real venom in his voice. "I didn't go through all this trouble just to watch you bleed out in the sand."
With those words, he stalked away to find a suitable spot where he could sit and meditate while they prepared. Cross-legged on the white dunes, he closed his eyes and began the process of centering his spiritual energy. The upcoming battle would require everything he had to offer, and he intended to be at peak condition when the time came.
Far away in the towering spires of Las Noches, Aizen Sosuke reclined upon his throne with an expression of mild amusement as he observed the events unfolding on the projected screen before him. The sight of Ulquiorra trapped within Grimmjow's dimensional prison elicited nothing more than a slight curve at the corners of his mouth—as if he had not only anticipated this development but actively encouraged it.
"Oh my, how unfortunate that Ulquiorra has been imprisoned," Ichimaru Gin commented from his position behind the throne, his perpetual smile stretching slightly wider as he observed the display. "This is quite the problematic development, Captain Aizen. Would you like me to handle the situation personally?"
The silver-haired former captain's voice carried its usual tone of mock concern, but his narrowed eyes betrayed a keen interest in his master's response. The offer to intervene was genuine, though whether out of loyalty or simple curiosity remained unclear.
"There's no need for concern, Gin," Aizen replied with characteristic calm, his attention shifting to Tōsen Kaname instead. "Tell me, what is the status of our Garganta detection systems?"
"The plan has proceeded exactly as predicted," Tōsen reported with mechanical precision, his unseeing eyes turned toward the projection screen. "We have confirmed the approach of at least four captain-level reiatsu signatures moving through the dimensional boundary. Their arrival is imminent."
"Excellent," Aizen said, his smile broadening into something approaching genuine pleasure. "Everything is proceeding according to schedule."
He turned his attention back to Ichimaru Gin with an expression of complete satisfaction, as if the apparent setback with Ulquiorra was merely an amusing sideshow rather than a serious complication.
"Don't trouble yourself with such trivial matters, Gin. What we're witnessing is nothing more than an elaborate piece of theater—a carefully orchestrated performance designed to serve our greater purposes. Let us simply enjoy the show as it unfolds."
"Of course, Captain Aizen," Ichimaru Gin replied with his customary deference, though his mind was already working to decipher the deeper implications of his master's words.
At that moment, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the vast throne room. A tall figure appeared at the massive entrance, his silhouette backlit by the pale radiance of Las Noches' artificial illumination. After a respectful knock upon the great doors, the visitor pushed them open and strode across the polished floor with measured steps.
As the figure drew closer, the details of his appearance became clear—tall and imposing, with an aura of refined nobility that spoke of both power and discipline. His movements were precise and elegant, betraying years of martial training and unwavering self-control.
"Welcome back, Reinhard Cavendish," Aizen greeted the newcomer with genuine warmth, gesturing for him to approach the throne. "I'm pleased to see you've returned safely. Your presence here indicates that Fiander has made a complete recovery, I trust?"
Reinhard executed a perfect formal bow before responding, his voice carrying the cultured tones of aristocratic upbringing. "Master Fiander has indeed recovered fully from his previous... difficulties. He asked me to convey his sincere gratitude for your assistance during his period of vulnerability."
With practiced efficiency, he withdrew an object from within his robes—the Hōgyoku, its crystalline surface pulsing with an inner light that seemed to bend reality around itself. The artifact radiated a bone-deep cold that made the very air shimmer, as if it existed partially outside the normal flow of space and time.
"Master Fiander wishes to express his deepest appreciation to Aizen-sama for your generous loan during his moment of need," Reinhard continued as he held the Hōgyoku aloft.
Aizen reached out to accept the artifact, his fingers closing around its surface with reverent care. The moment of contact sent a visible shiver through his frame as he felt the terrible power contained within—a force that promised transcendence beyond the normal limitations of existence.
"Magnificent," Aizen murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he examined the Hōgyoku's transformed state. "It appears that Fiander has indeed taken that crucial step forward. The implications of this development are... quite significant."
The words struck both Ichimaru Gin and Tōsen Kaname like physical blows, their carefully maintained composure cracking slightly as they processed the full meaning of Aizen's statement. Even Gin's perpetually narrowed eyes widened fractionally as he contemplated what his master had just confirmed.
For over a century, the three of them had been the only ones privy to the true scope of Fiander's research and experimentation. They understood better than anyone the significance of what Aizen had just implied—that Fiander had successfully achieved something that had been theoretically possible but practically impossible for countless generations of spiritual beings.
"How terrifying," Ichimaru Gin murmured, his voice carrying an undertone of genuine unease for perhaps the first time in decades. "Fiander continues to exceed even our most optimistic projections."
Observing the reactions of his two most trusted subordinates with evident satisfaction, Aizen turned his attention back to Reinhard with renewed interest. "We will be departing for Karakura Town within the next few hours. Until that time arrives, I would be honored if you would remain here as our guest and observe the proceedings alongside us."
"It would be my privilege, Aizen-sama," Reinhard replied with another formal bow before taking his position beside the throne.
As his gaze fell upon the projected image of Ichigo's battered form, Reinhard found himself struggling with a profound sense of uncertainty. The young Shinigami looked barely capable of standing, much less participating in the cosmic conflict that was rapidly approaching its climax.
Ichigo, he thought to himself, his expression betraying none of his internal doubts, can this wounded boy truly serve as our chosen catalyst for the plan's completion? Master Fiander, I hope your confidence in him proves to be justified.
The question hung heavy in his mind as the projection continued to display the small group's desperate struggle for survival in the endless desert of Hueco Mundo. Soon, very soon, all of their carefully laid plans would either come to fruition or crumble into dust—and the fate of multiple worlds hung in the balance.
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