From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

170: Chapter 170 Afternoon ConversationWhen he woke up, sunlight was already streaming through the gaps in the curtains, cutting warm patches of light onto the wooden floor of the Malibu bedroom. It took Alex a full ten seconds to confirm that he was indeed lying in soft bedding rather than a sleeping bag. The spot beside him was empty, and the faint sounds from the kitchen downstairs along with the aroma of coffee wafted up.

He sat up but didn’t get out of bed immediately. Closing his eyes, [Energy Perception] unfolded as naturally as breathing. The home’s energy field was warm and stable: Taylor’s active and focused fluctuations in the kitchen, the low hum of appliances, the eternal and soothing pulse of the Pacific Ocean outside, the extremely faint flow of traffic on the distant highway filtered by distance and soundproofing... All of this formed a familiar and reassuring ”home symphony.” The vast, cold energy landscape of the ice field, hidden with unnatural ”whispers,” felt like a distant yet clear dream.

But a cold sensation from the metal casing of the Nagra recorder seemed to linger on his fingertips, and the unique impression of ”ordered folds” left by those structured pulses in his perception vaguely echoed in his ears. That wasn’t a dream. It was a block of ice sunk into the deep sea of his consciousness, silent, yet changing the density and temperature of the seawater.

He took a deep breath, suppressed these thoughts for the moment, and got up to wash.

In the kitchen, Taylor was staring blankly at a small pot bubbling on the stove, stirring unconsciously. Hearing footsteps, she turned around and revealed a relaxed smile: ”Fried eggs or oatmeal?”

”Both.” Alex walked over, gently wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder as he caught the faint scent of gardenia in her hair. ”What are you cooking? It smells great.”

”Vegetable soup. I wanted to make it the day you got back, but it was too late then.” Taylor tilted her head to rub against his cheek. ”How are you feeling? Jet lag? Or... some other kind of lag?”

”A bit... unreal,” Alex answered honestly, letting go of her to pour some coffee. ”Like stepping out of a long sci-fi documentary and suddenly switching back to the life channel. The channel has changed, but my mind is still replaying clips from the previous one.”

Taylor nodded understandingly without pressing for details about the documentary. She brought the fried eggs and oatmeal to the table, and the two sat facing each other, eating breakfast quietly in the morning light. Occasionally their eyes met; no words were needed. A sense of tranquility and cherishing, like having survived a disaster (perhaps not that serious, but it felt that way), flowed through the air.

After the meal, Alex went to the Echo Vision headquarters. Having been away for less than two weeks, the company was running as usual. In fact, due to the explosive success of city of instantaneity and the continued momentum of the ”Monthly Echo Star” event, the atmosphere was even more upbeat. Marcus walked in carrying a large stack of documents, his face glowing. ”Boss! You’re finally back! Do you know how many partnership invitations we’ve received this week? Do you know how beautiful the platform’s subscription growth curve looks? Also, Director Zack’s assistant called again to ask if you’re interested in being the artistic director for the movie’s soundtrack; they want to do something special...”

Alex listened to Marcus’s rapid-fire report and looked at the pile of pending documents on his desk. That familiar feeling of being at the helm of his career gradually returned. He interrupted Marcus: ”One thing at a time. List the three most urgent and important tasks first. Schedule the rest by priority.”

He spent the entire morning handling backlogged tasks, making decisions, and signing documents. He was highly efficient, as if pouring all the focus he had accumulated on the ice field into his work. During his lunch break, he walked alone to the company’s terrace, which overlooked part of the city, and once again expanded his [Energy Perception].

The city’s energy map was completely different from the ice field: dense, cluttered, and full of the sharp radiation of man-made objects and the mottled colors of human emotions. But beneath this ”noise,” he tried to discern more fundamental, stable pulses—the faint resonance of the earth itself, the base frequency hum of the power grid, and even... was there some extremely faint ”background sound” belonging to the Earth itself, completely drowned out by urban noise? His experience on the ice field had given him a new sensitivity to ”planetary-scale” sounds (or energies).

In the afternoon, he met Taylor at the Echo Manufacturing label’s listening room. Universal Music had sent over the final master for the first phantom singer best-of EP, along with some follow-up project proposals for both Taylor and himself. More importantly, Taylor wanted him to hear that small cassette tape.

Only the two of them were in the listening room. After handling business and listening to the EP master, Alex suggested a few minor adjustments, emphasizing the uniqueness of the Spirit of the Wasteland track and Sarah’s city soundscape adaptation. The people from Universal accepted everything—Alex’s authority on sound aesthetics was now almost beyond question.

Then, Taylor took out that small Nagra tape, her expression somewhat solemn. She placed it into a carefully maintained and calibrated reel-to-reel machine of the same model, connected to the listening room’s top-tier monitoring system.

”I’ve listened to it,” Taylor said softly before pressing the play button. ”During many late nights, with different equipment and in different moods.”

The tape began to spin. At first, there was only a very faint noise floor from the speakers—that warm ”hiss” unique to analog media. A few seconds later, an indescribable ”sound” emerged. It wasn’t a melody, not a rhythm, not even environmental sound in the conventional sense. It was more like a very low-frequency ”pressure change” that almost reached the boundaries of perception, mixed with some ”hissing” sounds—as if electronic components under ultra-high sensitivity were capturing air molecules disturbed by a faint field—and something... like the extremely regular ”clicking” of precision Gears inside a clock running in absolute silence. However, the intervals of that ”clicking” weren’t as absolutely uniform as a mechanical clock; they carried a subtle, human-like fluctuation, like breathing.

This sound had no ”meaning,” yet it was full of ”presence” and a strange ”tension.” It quietly filled the listening room.

Taylor closed her eyes, her fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on her knee as if following a non-existent rhythm. Alex also closed his eyes, using [Energy Perception] to ”touch” this recorded ”micro-sound” that was an extension of his own energy field. In his perception, it presented an introverted, stable radiation form, originating from the same source as his current field, yet possessing a unique ”condensed” quality due to his state of focus during the recording.

About three minutes later, the tape reached its end and the sound disappeared.

Taylor slowly opened her eyes and looked at Alex, her gaze clear. ”What I heard was... focus. An extreme focus that searches outward while condensing inward. And... a little bit of the chill of ice, and a lot of... undercurrents beneath the calm.”

Her interpretation was so precise it made Alex’s heart shake slightly. She hadn’t heard a ”story,” but she had heard a ”state.”

”That was my ’ears’ and ’heart’ while I was there,” Alex said, without further explanation.

Taylor nodded and carefully removed the tape, putting it back into its protective case. ”I’ll keep it safe. Maybe... one day, it will become the deepest layer of background for a song.” She paused. ”However, next time there’s a ’business trip’ like this, could you... try to record some ’better-sounding’ samples? For instance, the wail of the wind over specific rock crevices on the ice field? Or the sound the aurora might make?”

She tried to lighten the invisibly heavy atmosphere with a joke. Alex smiled and took her hand. ”I’ll try. But some sounds might only exist in ’feeling’ and can’t be captured by a microphone.”

”Then you’re responsible for bringing back the ’feeling’,” Taylor squeezed his hand back with a sly smile. ”And then, we’ll find a way to turn it into music that others can ’feel’ too.”

As they left the listening room, Alex’s phone vibrated. It was a heavily encrypted message from an anonymous source, containing only one sentence:

”Preliminary analysis complete. ’Key’ model under construction. The perceptual data you provided is crucial. Stay in touch. There may be a need for an ’Interpreter’ soon. — K”

K was likely the code name for Spirit of the Wasteland or one of its core members. A need for an ”Interpreter”? Did that refer to deciphering the possible meanings of those pulse sequences?

Alex put away his phone, his expression unchanged. The aftershocks of the ice field hadn’t stopped; they had merely transformed from a violent ice collapse into an undercurrent deep underwater. And his life, his career, his love—this increasingly sturdy ship of his—would continue to sail on a sea where sunlight and undercurrents intertwined.

In the evening, they went together to attend a small ceremony for the completion of a healing space by the Sound of Echoes charity foundation. There were no media, only representatives of the families being helped and staff members. Alex and Taylor sat quietly in the back row, listening to a young girl who had emerged from trauma through music therapy. In a voice that was still a bit raw but full of emotion, she sang a song she had written while playing the guitar.

The song was simple, even a bit clumsy, but everyone present listened quietly. In Alex’s [Energy Perception], he could clearly ”see” that wherever the song reached, the tense or sad emotional energy fields of the people were like being brushed by gentle ripples, relaxing slightly and radiating warm undulations.

This subtle yet real change formed a strange reflection of the grand and eerie secret beneath the ice field. Both were the power of sound, acting on different dimensions and changing different worlds.

On the car ride home, Taylor leaned against Alex’s shoulder and suddenly said, ”When that girl was singing today, I was thinking that everything we do—music, movies, the platform, the foundation—is actually using sound to ’connect’ and ’translate.’ Translating inner emotions into melodies, translating the pulse of the city into rhythms, translating others’ pain into understanding and support... Maybe that’s what we should keep doing.”

Alex looked down and kissed her hair. He didn’t answer but simply held her tighter.

Outside the window, the lights of Los Angeles were beginning to flicker on. The traffic was like a river, and every headlight perhaps carried a story, a melody, a voice longing to be heard or translated.

And he, with his extraordinary perception and standing on a bustling stage, would continue this long and interesting journey of listening, creating, and ”translating.” The code of the ice field was a difficult chapter within it, but certainly not the whole story.