♕ the rebirth of the king.
How could he know for sure his chosen opponent was even strong? Grimmjow hunted anything with a reiatsu, it meant they would put up a worthy fight. If he couldn’t sense any right now, this ringmaster had just spared him from death, for no reason at all. He wouldn’t have minded dying a warrior’s death, waiting for someone to finish him off in Hueco Mundo. The pantera, proud until his last breath. Angry that he had lost to a shinigami, yet still wishing that bastard would have just finished him off like a man. Fought him to death. Arrogant bastard wouldn’t do it, and even when Nnoitra blind-sided him, he wasn’t dead.
Rage and disappointment. He leered at the man and raised his hand as though to stop him from finishing his explanation about how the whole “branding” game worked.
Outside the sun is setting and the atmosphere is mostly serene, except for the performers, new and old, preparing for this evening’s show—
A crimson beam erupted from the pinstripe tent, searing a gaping hole through the material and hopefully engulfing the ringmaster with it. It cast a red glare over the other tents, burning to a crisp anything in its path, before the blast dissipated and a robust figure sauntered out of the hole.
Since this was not a hunt for one specific reiatsu, only due to the disappointing lack thereof in this immediate vicinity, he made his prowl on ground level rather than flying high above the area. He walked with an aggressive gait; shoulders hunched, hands tucked into his pockets, head bowed more like he was ready to snap at the first person to bother him rather than the misleading perception he was trying to seem submissively smaller.
Most of these people were humans, quick and pitifully easy to crumple under his foot like a roach. They would be there for him to consume their souls, he supposed. He wasn’t about to entertain them, but he would thoroughly enjoy fighting anyone that proved they could make him break a sweat.
