Chapter 277 Benjamin's Death
Chapter 277 Benjamin's Death
The ground shook once, then shook again. Smoke poured out from the door crack, grayish-white and thick like fog that wouldn't dissolve.
Joseph pulled Jessica into his arms, using his arm to shield her head.
She didn't look back, didn't struggle, and didn't cry. She buried her face in his chest, listening to his heartbeat, one beat after another, steady and heavy, as if confirming she was still alive, and also confirming he was right here.
Benjamin lay on the laboratory floor, surrounded by debris.
Half the ceiling had collapsed, several cracks split the walls, and the air was full of smoke and dust, so choking you could barely open your eyes.
A concrete slab pinned his leg, leaving him completely unable to move, but he felt no pain. He looked up at the crack above, at the deep blue sky beyond it, at those clear stars.
The corners of his mouth slowly curved into a smile.
That smile was light, faint, so faint you could barely tell it was a smile. If anyone had been there to see it, they would have thought he'd never smiled so peacefully in his life, and never looked so good smiling.
After the explosion, the arena became a pile of ruins.
A large section of the mountain had collapsed, rocks and dirt mixed together, burying all those iron cages, laboratories, and hallways underneath.
Only the tallest chimney still stood there, crooked and tilted, like a lonely marker, reminding everyone what had once existed here.
The police excavation team dug at the site for three days and nights straight.
Jessica didn't go to the scene, and neither did Joseph.
They didn't need to confirm anything, because they knew Benjamin wouldn't come out alive.
From the moment he sent those children away, he had already decided not to leave himself a way out.
The explosion wasn't an accident, wasn't a loss of control, but him personally pressing the switch, personally burying himself under those piles of stone.
Those nightmares ended in Benjamin's hands, and the others finally had a chance to start over.
Benjamin's will was announced five days after his death.
When the lawyer took out that document from the safe, everyone present felt it all seemed a bit unreal—all the assets under his name, including Jones Group stock, over a dozen properties, several luxury cars, and various scattered investment projects, all left to Jessica.
The beneficiary column had only her name, no second in line, no backup plan.
Jessica sat in the Williams family living room, listening to the lawyer read through that document, her face showing no expression.
"Ms. Martinez, you need to sign here." The lawyer flipped to the last page of the document, pointing to the signature line.
Jessica lowered her head, looking at that paper, looking for a long time. She picked up the pen and signed her name on it.
The pen tip moved across the paper, making a series of faint but clear sounds.
After the news got out, public opinion instantly spiraled out of control.
The public's focus wasn't on how much inheritance she got, but on Benjamin suddenly transforming from "the Jones family's abandoned son" into a "heroic savior."
The news was flooded with reports about the arena—photos of those iron cages, those rescued children, lists of experimental equipment, those destroyed files.
Public anger erupted like a volcano, pointing directly at everyone connected to the arena.
The police took Azalea from the Jones Manor.
She was still wearing pajamas, her hair loose, with only one slipper on her feet. She was still sleeping when the police knocked, and by the time she was fully awake, she was already surrounded.
Those uniformed people turned her room upside down, putting her phone, computer, bankbooks, and passport one by one into evidence bags. The whole process was calm, quick, without any pause.
The police arrested Alfonso at the company, in front of all the employees.
He was in a meeting, talking about second-half performance targets when the conference room door was pushed open.
He looked up and saw several uniformed people standing in the doorway. The one in front held up his credentials and said in a calm voice, "Alfonso, you're suspected of involvement in illegal human experimentation. You need to come with us."
The conference room immediately fell silent. No one moved, no one spoke. Everyone was looking at him, looking at this man who had just been talking about performance, targets, and the future.
His face flushed red as he desperately tried to distance himself, but faced with the detailed information Benjamin had provided, he had no way to deny it.
When he was taken away, he passed through the hallway, past the reception desk, past those places he walked through every day but never really looked at.
Sunlight shone in from outside the glass curtain wall, falling on him, warm and bright. He suddenly realized he might never feel this kind of sunlight again.
The excavation team found Vivian and Harper under the arena ruins.
They worked in the rubble for three days and nights, digging out dozens of bodies from the broken stones and dirt—those experimental personnel in white coats, and two women crushed in the corner of the laboratory.
Vivian's body was almost completely deformed. Her face was smashed, her limbs broken, her white coat soaked in blood, turned dark red, mixed with dirt, making it hard to tell what was clothing, what was flesh, what was earth.
The only thing still noticeable was what she was missing—she no longer had hands.
Those hands had been cut off before the explosion. When she died, her wrists were still wrapped in gauze, the wounds festering and black.
Harper's face was pressed under a stone slab. When dug out, her features were no longer visible, just a blur of bloody flesh, like a lump of dough that had been repeatedly crushed and lost its shape.
No one claimed their bodies. The Martinez family didn't claim them, the Anderson family didn't claim them, and even their so-called "friends" all disappeared. Calls went unanswered, messages got no replies.
In the end, it was the funeral home staff who cremated them, put the ashes in two ordinary urns, placed them in a corner of the warehouse, where they quickly gathered dust.
No one came to collect them. Maybe no one ever would.
Hugo saw this news at the airport.
He had just returned from abroad, finishing a six-month medical aid project.
The moment he turned on his phone, messages flooded in like a tide—missed calls, texts, emails, news alerts.
He read through them one by one, his face gradually turning pale.
Benjamin was dead. The arena exploded, he was buried under the ruins, no survivors.
Hugo sat in the taxi, his finger sliding across his phone screen, constantly refreshing those news stories.
He remembered the last time Benjamin called him.
Benjamin's voice had sounded normal then, asking when he'd be back, saying they'd have drinks together when he returned.
He had agreed, saying when he got back.
The funeral was held at a funeral home in Northgate City, so simple it could almost be called shabby.
There was no body. The coffin only held a few pieces of clothing Benjamin had worn while alive, neatly folded there, like a gift no one would ever really open.
The hall where the funeral was held wasn't large, there weren't many flowers, and very few people came.
Not one person from the Jones family showed up. Nathan didn't come, Azalea was in prison and couldn't come, and Henry didn't appear either. They didn't even send a single bouquet of flowers.
When Hugo arrived, the funeral had already been going on for a while.