Ul'dah's nights burned as bright as its days. The desert heat gave way to lantern light, and the city roared with voices that refused to sleep. Merchants haggled over gems and silks, minstrels played for coin, and the clang of forges rang even past midnight. But Galuf Halm Baldesion had sniffed out a different kind of music—the rowdy thunder of laughter, mugs clashing, and fists pounding in rhythm.
The tavern sat at the edge of the Pugilist's Quarter, tucked low between sandstone walls stained with smoke and ale. Inside, the air was thick with sweat and roasted meat, the floor sticky with spilled drink. Galuf leaned back on a chair that creaked under his weight, two mugs already half gone, boots propped up on the bench. His enchanted handguards glimmered faintly in the lamplight, though to most they looked like nothing more than worn leather wraps.
He let out a booming laugh that turned heads. It had been too long since he'd felt so alive. The trial still lingered in his blood—the collapse, the monster born of five portals gone mad. He could still hear Zack's wild shouts, Aerith's gentle voice cutting through chaos, Noctis's leap crackling with fire, Reks standing unbroken. And himself, fists bruising against impossible hide, laughing all the while. The guildmasters had scattered them after, declaring solo paths. Fine. He didn't need hand-holding. He wanted bruises, and bruises he would find.
"Oi, stranger!"
Galuf turned, mug halfway to his mouth. Three men loomed over his table—not wide-eyed novices or brawny sellswords, but fighters with the kind of bearing you didn't fake.
The first carried an axe scarred from countless battles, its edge nicked but cared for. His arms bulged, veins like ropes, his grin full of teeth. The second leaned on a lance that looked older than the tavern itself, its shaft notched with stories. His stance was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp and measuring. The third rested a hand lightly on a sheathed katana, his posture quiet, steady, with a calm intensity that told Galuf he had ended fights before they'd even started.
"You've been laughing too loud," the axeman said, his grin almost as wide as Galuf's. "What's so funny, eh?"
Galuf slammed his mug onto the table, sloshing foam. "Life, lad! Life's too short not to laugh. But if you want a reason, how about a contest? One mug, one breath, last man standing!"
The tavern roared with approval. Tables were shoved aside, mugs refilled, coins exchanged in loud wagers. Soon the four of them stood shoulder to shoulder, raising brimming mugs.
"Drink!" someone bellowed.
Foam spilled as they downed their ale in one breath. The axeman went red in the face, the lancer coughed halfway through, the samurai drank with slow precision. Galuf tipped his back like a man half his age and slammed it down first, foam dripping from his beard.
"Still got lungs like a dragon!" he roared, pounding his chest.
The lancer smirked, wiping his mouth. "And fists like one too?"
"Only one way to find out." Galuf cracked his knuckles, joints popping like firecrackers.
The tavern floor was cleared in a frenzy of excitement. Chairs scraped, tables overturned, and the crowd pressed close. Coins clinked as bets were shouted. The brawl began with laughter, but the first blows were heavy enough to rattle the shutters.
The axeman swung like a thunderstorm, fists wide and heavy. Galuf blocked one strike, but the force rattled his ribs. He laughed and answered with a punch to the man's gut that sent him staggering into a bench. The lancer darted in quick, jabs sharp and precise as viper strikes. Galuf took one to the shoulder, winced, and returned with a headbutt that dropped the younger man to his knees.
Pain flared in his hip, his knee cracked loud enough to earn a groan from the crowd. He grinned wider, teeth flashing through blood. "Still got fight in these bones!"
The samurai finally stepped forward. The crowd hushed, anticipation thrumming. He unsheathed his blade only an inch, enough for steel to sing.
They circled each other. Sweat dripped into Galuf's eyes, his chest heaving, but his fists still curled tight. Then he lunged. The samurai's blade flicked out, flat deflecting every strike with sparks flying. They moved like old wolves—Galuf relentless, the samurai unshakable.
At last, Galuf slipped past the guard and landed a solid strike to the man's shoulder. The samurai staggered, then straightened, a slow smile breaking across his face. "You've still got iron in you, old one."
"And you three," Galuf wheezed, sweat pouring, grin splitting his battered face, "are no rusty relics yourselves."
The tavern exploded. Ale spilled. Boots stamped. A fiddle struck up in wild rhythm. The four men clasped forearms, sweat and blood binding them together.
Kaelen Drast—once a general of the flames, his axe still heavy with echoes of war. Odrin Holt—dragoon who had slain wyverns, though his hair was now silver. Torvik Brandt—tactician turned swordmaster, eyes sharp even in age. Retired, they claimed. But Galuf knew better. Fighters never retired. They only waited for the next good brawl.
"Rusty?" Galuf bellowed, raising a mug that someone shoved into his hand. "Not a chance! You're iron, through and through. You're the Iron Old Guard!"
The name hit like a hammer. The tavern roared it back, tankards raised. The three veterans laughed louder than they had in years. From that moment, the night belonged to them—old fists and young fire, bruises and laughter in equal measure.
When dawn bled over Ul'dah's sandstone walls, Galuf staggered out of the tavern with sore ribs, raw knuckles, and a head swimming with ale. The three veterans clapped him on the back, promising another round one day. They parted ways with clasped hands and respect shining in their eyes.
Galuf squinted at the horizon, where the desert sky met the blazing sun, and chuckled to himself. "Not bad for an old coot. Still plenty of fight left in me."
His laughter carried down the waking streets, bold and unbroken, ready to meet whatever Eorzea dared throw at him next.