He was usually given ghost-friendly meals—pale moon buns, icy cloudberry soup, and sparkling mooncake. And every night, the elders made him drink the white potion that strengthened ghost forms, the one that tasted like vanilla starlight and cold morning air.
He always drank it without complaint.
Because the first time he tried to drink water…He didn't know how.
He remembered it clearly—when he was still a baby ghost, floating clumsily around the high halls of the council tower.
He had looked at the potion in the cup, confused.
When he tried to hold it, it spilled through him.
The elder ghosts had watched in silence.
One of them had shown him how—just once—and told him coldly, "Learn fast. Weak ghosts don't survive long."
So he did.
He practiced over and over, until he could hold the cup steady, until he could drink without letting it slip.
Because he didn't want to be called weak again.
