"Turn around," Silas instructed, his voice cold and detached.
Grimmjow reluctantly complied. A muscle twitched in his jaw, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Silas covered the distance between them. A single finger jabbed at Grimmjow's small back, targeting the spot where his tattoo was.
A jolt of foreign energy shot through Grimmjow, coursing through his veins like liquid fire. It wasn't pain—not exactly—but a disorienting, sickening feeling that threw his equilibrium off-kilter.
The Arrancar collapsed to his knees, sweat beading on his brows. He spun around, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear. "What did you…?" he asked as he trailed off as his gaze landed on Silas, who was already striding back towards his throne.
Grimmjow scrambled to his feet in disorientation. His senses, which are usually sharp, felt muted. For several agonizing seconds, he could find no words or threats that could properly convey the mix of rage and terror coursing through him.
Finally, the pain began to lift. The world snapped back into focus, and with it came the horrifying understanding that something fundamental within him had been altered.
"What is this?" Grimmjow rasped, replacing the bravado in his voice with uncertainty.
Silas reached his throne and settled upon it; his posture relaxed despite the tension. "Flick your wrist," he commanded, his voice devoid of any inflection.
Grimmjow stared, an absurd order in the face of what had just transpired. Yet he knew better than to defy. The motion felt insignificant, even foolish, but he did it anyway.
After a few seconds, his vision exploded in a blinding flash of blue and white, a flurry of spirit particles swirling and twisting around him. The floor vanished beneath his feet, replaced by a dizzying sense of weightlessness. His ears filled with a roaring sound that drowned out all other sensations.
Then, with startling suddenness, it was over.
He gasped, his lungs burning, and he found himself not in the throne room but upon a white throne chair, impossibly high, in a vast cylindrical chamber bathed in an eerie white light.
The room stretched seemingly upward into infinity. Its walls curled away, disappearing into a blinding expanse. The sheer scale of it and the crushing silence sent a new wave of fear coursing through him.
What astounded him the most was the engraved number seven on his chair. This was both alluring and daunting at the same time. Grimmjow knew he wasn't number seven. In addition to this, all of the other chairs had numbers, with the highest one being number twelve.
So why was he sitting on number seven?
With another flick of his wrist, the world twisted once more, and he was back in the throne room, kneeling before Silas. His second experience with teleporting wasn't like the first. And he surely hadn't put himself in this position upon returning.
He looked up at Silas's unreadable expression, his new lord's eyes like chips of ice. Grimmjow had witnessed firsthand the fear and disorientation of his own involuntary obedience.
Silas, however, was disappointed.
The ability to make Grimmjow teleport to the newly constructed meeting hall was satisfactory, but the teleportation itself was still unrefined. It took time to execute. And had it not been for Grimmjow instinctively knowing how to use the link etched on his number to his throne chair, he might not have been able to teleport.
But it was a start. Still, Silas craved Grimmjow's surprise and the confusion he had expected.
"This chamber," Silas finally stated, breaking the silence. "It is known as the 'Sanctum of Rebirth', and it is a gift to my most loyal servants."
"I understand, lord Ichigo... But why was I sitting on the seventh chair?"
Silas remained in place, each passing second giving Grimmjow a sense of unease. Then he commanded, "Gather the Espada... Inform them that I shall bestow this power upon each of them. They will serve me... body and spirit."
The last words were spoken softly, but they held the ironclad certainty of a death sentence. Everyone listening outside scurried off as Grimmjow turned to leave.
Silas knew who the listeners were. None of them were Espada members.
Las Noches was a colossal white fortress, serving as the headquarters for all the Arrancars in Hueco Mundo. It housed all types of Hollows, many of them being Arrancars, but some also being low-level Gillians and even docile Adjuchas waiting to be turned Arrancars.
These were the ones listening in on the meeting. Because of Silas's vast superiority, they sought every moment to understand him and to be with him. More importantly, unlike the Espada, they sought to serve him unconditionally.
They ranged from stonemasons, nurses, sewers and tailors, technicians, cobblers, and groundskeepers—the very skilled labourers that kept the entire fortress running, clean, and up to date.
It wasn't always this way, though. Previously, it was a roofless castle for Baraggan, the former king of Hueco Mundo, who preferred the open sky. For his Arrancar, Aizen had transformed it into a sprawling complex with a central dome, numerous towers, and even medical facilities.
The interior was always vast, and some speculated it might be an illusion due to its immense size. Interestingly, the dome itself is meant for observation purposes. However, not many people understand the purpose of the simulated blue sky or other things within the fortress.
As Silas recalled those things, the doors to the throne room opened, revealing the Espada gathered in a tense tableau. Silas's gaze swept across his assembled forces.
Yammy and Zommari exchanged a guarded glance, both stoic expressions betraying little. Ulquiorra and Aaroniero, ever the unwavering servants, bowed their heads slightly in acknowledgment. Baraggan, the elder statesman, snorted derisively, his gaze fixed on the intricate patterns adorning the floor.
Grimmjow leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, his expression a stormy mask. When Nnoitra saw this, he approached him and said, "Grimmjow, is what I heard about you being demoted to number seven true?"
Everyone understood what Nnoitra was up to. The rumour had spread like wildfire, and he was fanning the flames. Grimmjow, however, didn't respond.
"Nothing to say? Ha-ha! Oh well!"
"Quiet," Dordoni said.
Before Nnoitra could retaliate, he noticed Silas's gaze fixed on him. Those pupils, reflections made the Espada silent.
"Welcome," Silas intoned, his voice smooth yet menacing. "The time has come to discuss the next phase."