Gu Xun once believed himself to be an island. His appearance was both a gift and a curse. It drew too many intense gazes he neither needed nor could return, like waves relentlessly crashing against his boundaries, attempting to erode his core. He erected an icy wall, arming himself with detachment and coolness, keeping everyone—including the fiery Jiang Jin and the instinctively evasive Lu Zhao—at bay.
When the apocalypse struck and supernatural abilities awoke, that wall seemed even more impenetrable. He became the team's indispensable support, the cool-headed decision-maker. He needed Jiang Jin's flames to clear paths and Lu Zhao's winds to warn of danger. Yet this remained a partnership born of survival necessity; his heart remained locked away.
The turning point came on that fateful night at the hardware store.
When Jiang Jin's obsession crystallized into tangible aggression, when that familiar, possessive heat pressed down upon him, Gu Xun felt not just rage and revulsion, but a profound sorrow—in some eyes, he was ultimately nothing more than a beautiful object worth fighting over.
Yet, the instant before he unleashed his powers for a decisive counterattack, Lu Zhao—whom he'd believed long "asleep" from fear—shuddered and cried out with startling clarity: "Let him go!"
In that instant, a small stone—yet one carrying astonishing warmth—was cast into Gu Xun's frozen heart.
Lu Zhao's fear was real; Gu Xun could feel it. That aversion to same-sex contact (which Gu Xun had always sensed) still lingered in that moment. Yet a stronger force had overwhelmed that fear—a sense of justice? Comradeship? Or... something else?
Gu Xun didn't know. But he understood that in this apocalyptic world where everyone might choose self-preservation (including his former self), Lu Zhao had stepped forward. For him, Lu Zhao had confronted that fear and danger head-on.
This was unlike any "kindness" he'd received before. Jiang Jin's "goodness" came with heavy demands and possessiveness. Others' adoration carried shallow desires. Only Lu Zhao's trembling halt—clumsy yet pure, asking for nothing in return—sprang from the instinct that "one cannot stand by and watch wrongdoing happen."
For the first time, someone had transcended mere fascination with his appearance, even overcoming their own barriers, to genuinely reach for the person within Gu Xun.
The soil for this budding connection took root during their escape.
He witnessed Lu Zhao transform from a "burden" needing his protection into a capable partner who could stand on his own. His wind blades grew sharper, his vigilance sharper. Fear still gripped him, yet when danger struck, he instinctively shielded Gu Xun or clutched his hand, pulling him to safety.
Gu Xun witnessed Lu Zhao's growth, and saw the resilience and kindness at his core. When supplies were scarce, Lu Zhao would quietly save the better food for him. When exhaustion left him weakened, Lu Zhao would clumsily yet steadfastly take the night watch. Those eyes, usually guarded, would soften when they met his, revealing unmasked worry.
Especially that night in the abandoned sentry post. When he awoke from a high fever, he saw the lingering terror and exhaustion on Lu Zhao's face. He saw the solitary can of food and water by the bedside—water and food bought with Lu Zhao's life. An unprecedented, sharp pang of heartache seized him.
This man, who was clearly so afraid, who could have chosen an easier path—like submitting to Jiang Jin from the start, or staying safely at the base as a combatant—had time and again, without hesitation, chosen to walk this most difficult, most dangerous road with him.
Lu Zhao never spoke in flowery words; his care was hidden in his actions—a cup of water offered, a pile of chopped firewood, a mended garment, and countless silent yet steadfast moments of walking side by side and standing guard.
Gu Xun's icy walls began to melt silently in the face of these small yet genuine acts of warmth. He found himself caring about Lu Zhao's feelings, feeling relieved by his progress, wincing at his injuries, and craving the peace that came when Lu Zhao was by his side.
What he cherished wasn't Lu Zhao's power (wind-element abilities weren't the strongest) nor his looks (Lu Zhao was merely delicate). What he cherished was Lu Zhao's soul—one that chose courage in the face of fear, maintained integrity in the apocalypse, and poured out everything in silence.
As they stood side by side beneath the farm's sunset, when Lu Zhao whispered, "Wherever we are together, there is hope," Gu Xun knew his solitary island had finally welcomed its one and only ship.
This love was born in the ruins of despair, nurtured on their journey side by side, and blossomed in the trust and protection they offered each other. It was not intense, yet it ran deep to the bone; it was not flashy, yet it was unbreakable.
To him, Lu Zhao was the freshest, freest breeze that scattered the gloom of the apocalypse—the one that brought him the deepest peace.