Kuja is instantly ready to start flinging spells if something bad happens here, but the instant that nebula starts to form he's stepping backward, alarmed- but it's likely too late, whispers and voices and flashes of places he'd been and places he'd not. The streets of Alexandria, the endless blue of Terra, a ballroom in Treno, Burmecia in ruins-

"What... Oh, don't tell me-"

Voices, fragmented sentences.
"It's as though the rain itself is blessing-"
"Fly home, little canary, home to your-"
"-let the world exist without me-"
"-deserve to live after what I've-"
"-here, Bahamut. Play a requiem for her-"
"What do you mean, 'replace me'?"