Standing at the teahouse entrance, I watched the ghost who’d just drawn me a map. He took the money I’d given him and split it with the other ghosts. A surge of anger rose inside me.
“Go on, kid. I didn’t cheat you,” the ghost said with a lingering smile. I turned away, resolved to give it a shot no matter what.
I asked around as I walked, searching for quite a while before reaching the northern part of the city. It was bleak—the farther north I went, the more rundown and squat the houses became. Unkempt ghosts glared at me from the shadows.
Soon I found myself on a broad avenue. Looking north, I spotted the grand gate I’d heard about. They say many beggar ghosts gather here, because if you keep walking past this place, you’ll eventually reach the Bridge of Forgetfulness—if you’re lucky, you might be reborn.
So, some ghosts clinging to that hope spend everything they have here. Others save a bit, which is why this spot has become a haven for beggar ghosts—most of them arrive with nothing left, looking ragged and desperate, just waiting to beg.
Word is, the beggar child who saw the Rakshasa Tree hangs around just to the right of the North Gate.
I broke into a quick run, and soon reached the gate. Ragged ghosts rushed over, their tangled hair and grimy faces closing in on me, each one trying to get my attention.
“I heard there’s a kid here who’s seen the Rakshasa Tree. Who is it? Tell me!”
No sooner had I spoken than all eyes turned to me, stunned. Looking at the crowd—ghosts of all ages and sizes—I couldn’t help but sigh. Even in the ghost world, just like among humans, there are the rich and the poor.
“You mean Henry, right? He’s not here today. I’ll take you to him.”
A younger ghost spoke up, grabbing my hand and trying to lead me away, but the others blocked him. Every ghost insisted on taking me, and I found myself caught in the middle.
“What’s all this noise? Get out of the way.”
A Hell’s Sentinel shouted down from the city tower. The ghosts harassing me scattered. I followed the young ghost along the base of the city wall, heading east.
Rows of gray-white tents lined the area. I followed the ghost to one tent, where a boy ghost—seven or eight years old—sat. Unlike the others, he wasn’t filthy; his clothes were worn, but he was remarkably clean.
I handed some money to the ghost who’d brought me, and he left.
“Hey, kid, did you really see the Rakshasa Tree?”
I asked. The little ghost turned his head, and for a moment, he looked oddly familiar—gentle and quiet, a delicate-looking child.
“Uncle, I did,” the little ghost replied politely.
“Can you tell me exactly where you saw it?”
“I don’t really remember, but I did see it—a huge section of tree root.”
I let out a startled gasp, staring at Henry. Then I questioned him carefully. He said the tree root was as big as a mountain, leaving me speechless—I could only sigh.
"Uncle, I'm not lying. I really saw it."
"Then tell me, Henry, why do you think that was the Rakshasa Tree?"
"I saw a big sister sneaking around, chiseling at the root. She said if you drank the sap inside, you'd finally be free."
Suddenly, my eyes widened. I asked him for details several times, but Henry kept changing his story—first east, then west. He really didn't know where it was.
I was starting to get anxious.
"Try to think. Is there any place nearby you remember?"
Henry clutched his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and thought hard. Then he opened his eyes.
"Oh, right, Uncle—there's an Octagonal Tower nearby, I think."
Suddenly, it clicked. There really are thirteen Octagonal Towers here. I handed Henry some money, and he thanked me gratefully.