"I'm perfectly capable of mentioning two different things at the same time," says Kuja. "Of course they're different. That was my meaning." He feels annoyed. After all, all he'd done was assist. Why must people make it so difficult for him to help? It's much easier to dominate, to crush them, to murder them by the score.

That's what he was made to do, and that makes him dangerous, but he pushes that thought along with that desire from his head. He won't be what he was made to be.

"Is that what you want? To wander on forever here? You don't know where you're going, and those creatures might return." In truth, he is a little bored. Being dead (or so he believes), these dreams are all he has. He won't be left behind and return to the ashes of Terra, which always draw him near. "This place is empty, desolate. Things could be so much more beautiful."

With a wave of his hand, he casts an illusion, transforming the landscape into a green garden bright with flowers, with a glittering castle in the distance, its turrets as fine and delicate as spun glass. It might be made of glass, in fact, or crystal, for it seems one could almost see right through it. There are topiaries in the shapes of dragons and torama, and there's soft music in the air, as of a harp playing somewhere.