The edge of his iris briefly gleams a baleful red. Emet-Selch throws up a late shield against the demi-Bahamut's blast, scowling as the heat of it washes over him, and then returns it with one far more powerful. The construct is mere aether. How could it possibly stand against he who has mastered its use?

"You had help then, Rhea'li. You think you can stand against my might alone?!" he laughs.

Shadows obscure his form in a way that is familiar. In short time, out strides the true form of the mage Hades, staff in hand (not Zodiark's but some sort of metal rod topped with a large crystal; it looks of Magisterian make).

"Come! I shall show you just how feeble you are!"