An announcement was shortly made to all the Arrancars within Las Noches. Everyone had verified that Silas was not a force to be reckoned with. Some went as far as questioning what became of their last leader, to which it was made obvious he had died.
There were speculations on whether or not Silas had been the one to kill Aizen, but no one had enough confidence to ask. All they understood was that there was a new being sitting on the throne, and no one stood against that being.
Alone in the throne room was Silas.
The vast, empty chamber felt alien. This was his prize, his stage. But it was not his style.
In every corner of this palace, there were too many indications left by others. It was a mark that Silas planned to erase.
He rose from his seat, vanished, and then materialized in the grand meeting hall of the Espada.
This chamber, once filled with long tables and ornate chairs where Aizen would hold court, now felt stifling and oppressive. The low ceilings and intricate carvings seemed to mock Silas's sense of self. This place of tea parties and petty squabbles was unfit for the era he would usher in.
"You there," Silas said, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. His eyes fixed on a trembling Arrancar cowering in the corner. Several others scurried about with cleaning supplies, their heads bowed in fear.
"Y-yes, lord…" the Arrancar stammered, struggling to meet his gaze.
"Gather your fellows. This place is disapproving. We shall, therefore, make some renovations."
In but a moment's time, the Arrancar managed to summon those responsible for having built Las Noches. There weren't that many to begin with. Some of them varied from a few stories tall, while others were small enough to be held in one's palm.
They all assembled in the meeting hall, lined up to await their new leader's command. Confusion and terror spread among the assembled as Silas explained the new design.
Disobedience was unthinkable, and within minutes, a motley crew of frightened labourers stood before him, tools clutched in shaking hands.
"First," Silas declared. "We shall address the proportions." He gestured upward. "This ceiling—it is far too low. Raise it. A space worthy of containing all the Espada's spiritual pressures must be made. One hundred feet at minimum."
The assembled Arrancars gasped in horror. Such a task seemed impossible, a feat beyond their comprehension. Yet, under Silas's gaze, their hesitation ceased.
With trembling hands, they began to focus their meager spiritual power, manipulating the very fabric of the room. The ceiling groaned in protest, then slowly began to rise. Dust rained down, and an unsettling creaking filled the hall, but foot by foot, they obeyed.
Silas watched impassively for a time, then gave another command.
"The walls—they are too ornate, too cluttered. Strip them bare and transform them into a perfect cylinder. Nothing needs to show."
With chisels and hammers, the Arrancars attacked the stone with desperate fervor. Ornate carvings shattered under their frenzied blows, revealing the raw material beneath.
Hour after hour, they toiled, the air thick with dust and the incessant pounding of their primitive tools. Still, Silas watched.
Some Arrancars passing by inquired about what was taking place. But the moment they heard Silas, they immediately lowered their heads without question. The news would quickly spread that he was building something unique, piquing the interest of the Espada.
After what felt like days, the walls stood bare, a rough approximation of the perfect curve he envisioned. Silas circled the room, his keen eyes searching for imperfections. Using his hand, he pointed out minute deviations from true symmetry, demanding corrections until the cylinder was flawless.
"Now," he instructed, his sharp gaze sweeping across the exhausted Arrancars. "Paint. The entirety of this chamber shall be pure white."
They obeyed, and buckets of white paint appeared with surprising efficiency. Soon, the harsh scent of chemicals filled the air as the room was drenched in a blinding, artificial purity. A large, stylized cross was then engraved and painted at the exact center of the room, a testimony to his faith in Jesus Christ.
Finally, the paint dried, and Silas turned his attention to the final element.
"Seating," he pronounced. "Twelve chairs shall encircle this room, each hovering in the air at varying heights. They shall also be pure white with Christian ornamentation. Number them—one through twelve—each etched upon the backrest."
The Arrancars hadn't known what "Christian ornamentations" were. But again, they trembled as Silas revealed it to them, the full scope of his vision becoming clearer.
There was a strange spark in their eyes now, a mix of fear and awe. Perhaps they were beginning to sense the grand, terrifying purpose behind this meticulously crafted madness—something that would surely spread throughout Las Noches.
For hours, they shaped and molded, infusing the chairs with just enough spiritual pressure to keep them suspended in the air. Silas watched their frantic work, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Chair number twelve was placed at the highest point, towering over the others. It was to be his chair, as well as a symbol of his absolute authority. To either side of his designated seat were placed chairs' two and six, positions of honour reserved for the first two Espada.
As the final chair was etched with the number one, a cold satisfaction settled over Silas.
He surveyed the transformed hall. The room now echoed with the raw promise of his own unbounded ambition. This was not a place for discussions or diplomacy. This was a crucible, a forge where his Espada would be remade, honed into weapons for his pleasure.
Yet, there was something lacking: a proper light source.
Using his own power, he constructed a hall almost as bright as the sun to illuminate the new hall. He then bathed in the sterile white glow, finally relaxing his rigid posture.
A sigh escaped his lips.
The room's silence stretched, punctuated only by the ragged breaths of the exhausted Arrancars huddled in the corner. Their fear was palpable, but Silas ignored it. Fear was a tool, and these Arrancars were no more than apparatuses to be used.
"Well done," he finally said. "Your task is complete. Seal the entrance and leave."