Terrors of the Dunes

Prelude
The white sands of Hueco Mundo extended from horizon to horizon as far as the eye could perceive, towering dunes dotted the landscape as though the result of fallen ash. The otherwise empty expanse was broken in places by empty buildings of white stone that were the final reminder of what had transpired here during the Thousand-Year Blood War.

Quincy deserters had settled down in this area because they thought it a sufficient distance from Las Noches, and they’d just about begun eking out a life for themselves.

But that life would be short-lived, as now the small village was, but a smoking ruin and the eradicated corpses of Quincy now lay spread across the sands, their blood adding some much-needed colour to the otherwise drab environment.

In the middle of the chaos stood a tall blue-haired man with eyes of cerulean and hands grimed red with the blood of the fallen, his expression one of the greatest joy as his lips parted into a devilish grin at the mayhem he’d inflicted upon his enemies.

It was only fitting, for he had once been dubbed the Aspect of Destruction amongst the Espada. His grin turned even wider as he realised that his hunt was still not yet done; some of his prey had managed to escape the chaos and were now fleeing in terror.

Grimmjow’s blood boiled at the thought and he relished the nostalgia of hunting upon these dunes. The thrill of battle, the raw primality of it all, This was how Hueco Mundo was supposed to be and stragglers or not he welcomed the Quincy openly for this reason alone!

Dancing around on his feet, Grimmjow lunged forwards as his form seemingly whisked out of reality in a blur as he streaked across the desert towards his destination, using his Pesquisa to track his prey. He found them quickly enough and slipped past them without them noticing to appear solidly in front of them with a sonic boom and a wave of force that formed a miniature twister of sand around him as he replaced his suddenly outstretched hand into his pocket.

The Quincy looked upon him in horror before they produced their spirit weapons as the former Espada made no move to attack them; he seemed almost bored as he spoke coldly at them.

“Morons. I already killed ya'!”

Realisation never came as at that moment each of the nine Quincy split apart in two, bifurcated along their waists by the Arrancar’s passing. Grimmjow’s eyes returned to their usual empty lustre as his hunt came to an end.