Thorny Rose and the Underworld Prince

Some men exude danger and malevolence from their very bones—even when they stand perfectly still, doing nothing at all. Dai Ling first laid eyes on the Chen family’s heir apparent at Bangkok’s Wat Pho in November, during the grand, extravagantly lavish Buddhist funeral for the Chen patriarch. At that moment, she stood in the heart of the temple hall, a string of sandalwood prayer beads spinning between her fingers, her gaze fixed on the far end of the entrance. Amidst a sea of overlapping dark and gray-blue robes, a tall, slender figure—shrouded in a piercing, icy aura—burst suddenly into her sight. His face was partially obscured by the shadow of a black umbrella, yet the air of unparalleled nobility and unbridled arrogance clinging to him left no doubt as to his exalted status. The beads in her hand froze mid-spin. Dai Ling bit down on her lower lip, her eyes locked on her quarry as she silently plotted her next move. That Wednesday morning, the Chen family’s funeral had officially begun at Wat Pho—one of Thailand’s three national treasures. Seals were plastered across the temple walls, announcing a one-day closure to the public. Tourists, both local and foreign, swarmed every entrance, only to be dispersed by police officers stationed at the gates, forced to keep a distance of at least two meters. For Thailand’s newly anointed richest Chinese family, such ostentation came as no surprise. Inside the resplendent main hall, countless floral offerings and Buddhist pastries adorned the space, while a massive portrait of the deceased dominated the center. Dai Ling blended seamlessly into the throng of ordinary worshippers. Her role that day was to tend to the incense and oil lamps—standing alongside other disciples, each before their own lotus lamp, rosary beads in hand, chanting sutras to guide the deceased’s soul. Directly opposite the hall, the plaza was now filled with members of the Sihai Gang. Clad in identical black suits and trousers, each wore a white chrysanthemum pinned to their left chest, their expressions solemn and grave. A single glance revealed a sea of men, every one of them radiating a menacing, thuggish aura. At the very front of this black-suited contingent stood a line of police officers in gray-blue uniforms, fully armed at their waists, their eyes darting cautiously across the crowd. As the sky neared nine o’clock, the sound of footsteps echoed from far away, drawing closer to the main hall. Dai Ling narrowed her eyes toward the end of the aisle. Blurred figures approached, and the two rows of black-clad gang members instantly pivoted, bowing in perfect unison to those advancing down the path. She knew the legendary Nine-Faced Buddha had arrived. Under everyone’s gaze, three large black umbrellas were held aloft by three men in black, slowly escorting the procession forward. Black umbrellas were an underworld tradition—symbolizing the power to “overshadow the heavens.” They were used chiefly at funerals and gang showdowns: to assert noble status, and to ward off misfortune and evil spirits. Leading the procession was a man in an understated black silk Tang suit, a golden tiger embroidered on his left chest. He carried an urn with both hands, stepping steadily toward the main hall. Though his face was expressionless, his presence was so formidable that it sent shivers down one’s spine—even from a hundred meters away. Under the watchful eyes of those lining the aisle, Danpa—wearing plain black cloth shoes—took each step forward slowly, with solemn gravity. Dai Ling had seen her share of hard men, but Danpa’s face held a cold ruthlessness, a sharp cunning, and eyes as dark and fathomless as a bottomless pool—enough to make one’s blood run cold. Born Chen Dan, with ancestral roots in Chaozhou, Guangdong, he was among the first wave of Chinese gangsters to carve out a fearsome reputation in Thailand. This crime lord, who ruled Thailand with an iron fist, dressed plainly, yet every inch of him exuded an intimidating aura that made one tremble. As he drew closer, Dai Ling made out the figures behind him: Danpa’s wife, Ruan Nila. And her true target—their only son, the heir to the Sihai Group. Ang Wei. Once the group stepped into the main hall, the three henchmen behind them finally lowered their black umbrellas. They bowed to the leading monks, then—following their guidance—placed Old Master Chen’s ashes on the Buddhist altar already prepared in the hall’s center. Dai Ling stood closest to the central incense burner; her task was to hand them incense. With every glance she cast their way, she couldn’t hide the hatred blazing in her chest—her eyes cut like shards of ice, sharp enough to pierce. The Nine-Faced Buddha, with connections spanning both the underworld and legitimate circles, was all but unrivaled in Thailand. The Chen family’s power was so all-encompassing that it had built walls as impenetrable as a fortress; for Dai Ling, sneaking inside seemed next to impossible. But a key figure had emerged to break this deadlock. Dai Ling had never known the Nine-Faced Buddha had a son—until two years earlier, when this “crown prince” had appeared out of nowhere. Thai gossip had spread like wildfire, all but confirming the truth. Sister Hua had also obtained solid intel from her Thai source, N, verifying it was true. And from that day on, a new revenge plan had begun to take shape in Dai Ling’s mind. Yet in those two years, barely any photos or real images of Ang Wei had surfaced. Raised abroad since childhood, he shunned public appearances. Most people had no idea what the crown prince looked like—only that his methods were even more ruthless than his parents’. After Danpa and Ruan Nila finished offering their incense, Ang Wei stepped up to the incense burner. When he brought his hands together in a respectful bow, Dai Ling finally caught her first clear glimpse of his face.