163: Chapter 163 The Promise of the Mark

The internal technical seminar of the MPSE (Motion Picture Sound Editors) was held in a small conference center filled with an academic atmosphere.

The attendees were mostly middle-aged people with graying hair or focused expressions; they were the true backbone of the Hollywood sound industry—editors, mixers, and foley artists who spent their years in mixing studios and editing rooms, injecting soul into countless films through sound.

When Alex Su—a face that was excessively young and better known as a musician and cross-disciplinary creative—walked onto the podium, the gazes cast from the audience were filled with scrutiny and curiosity.

Alex could feel the weight of those gazes, but he was not nervous in the slightest.

He was not here today to show off the success of "city of instantaneity," but to share a "perspective."

The title of his speech was simple: "Beyond the Waveform: Sound as the Tactility of Space and Emotion."

Without piling on obscure jargon, he started with an ordinary submission from "Echo Puzzle"—that "creak of a rusty swing"—analyzing how to extract multiple emotions and physical textures like "loneliness," "passage of time," and "metal fatigue" from it.

Next, he cited sound design cases of the "data torrent" and "Ark of Consciousness" from "city of instantaneity," explaining how to transform abstract technological concepts into perceptible "sound textures" and "energy contours."

"We often talk about the frequency, amplitude, and spatial positioning of sound," Alex said, switching through his carefully prepared, concise slides, which were mostly spectrum diagrams and emotion coordinate charts.

"But sound also carries 'weight,' 'temperature,' and 'texture.' A low, deep rumble can 'press' against the audience's chest, a sharp high frequency can 'pierce' the silence, and a certain combination of harmonics can create a psychological sense of 'spaciousness' or 'crowdedness.' I believe that excellent sound design is not just about restoring or setting the scene, but about using the 'tactility' of sound to directly sculpt the audience's perception and emotional space."

He shared some of his own (naturally, rationalized) "work methods": how to capture the "sound imagery" corresponding to specific scenes or emotions through association, synesthesia, and even meditation; how to build an "energy model" of the sound in his mind before technical implementation.

These methods sounded a bit "metaphysical," but he backed them up with solid cases and clear logic.

At the end of the speech, he opened the floor for questions.

A veteran foley artist raised his hand, the question very direct: "Mr. Su, the 'sound tactility' you mentioned is very interesting. But in a fast-paced industrial workflow, we often don't have time for this kind of 'meditation.' Do you have any more practical advice?"

Alex smiled: "My advice is to build a private 'sound texture library.' It's not just about recording, but recording. When you hear a sound that triggers a strong physiological or emotional reaction in you, write it down immediately, describe the 'tactility' it brings you—is it 'sandpaper-like roughness' or 'silk-like smoothness'? Is it 'ice pick-like coldness' or 'sunshine-like warmth'? Over time, you will form a 'sound tactility dictionary' that belongs to you. When needed, it can help you quickly find the right direction."

The answer was pragmatic and full of personal experience, winning many nods of agreement.

After the seminar ended, several veterans took the initiative to come over and exchange contact information with him, discussing specific technical issues, their attitudes now equal and respectful.

Alex knew that he had truly knocked open the door in this core circle and left an impression of being an "innovator with unique insights who can deliver results."

Bringing this sense of fulfillment from industry recognition back to Los Angeles, Alex found Taylor staring blankly at a pile of sheet music and notes.

"What's wrong?" He walked over and rubbed her hair.

"I'm writing a new song, but I always feel... it's missing an 'anchor point'."

Taylor frowned. "The theme is about 'the imprints of memory,' not grand ones, but those tiny marks left on objects, in smells, in sounds. The melody is there, but it lacks a core 'sound symbol'."

Alex thought for a moment, then took her hand: "Come on, let me take you somewhere."

He didn't go to a professional recording studio, but drove Taylor to the Santa Monica Pier.

At dusk, the amusement park lights had just turned on, the noise mixed with the sea breeze.

They sat on a bench by the pier, and Alex asked Taylor to close her eyes.

"Don't 'think' about music," he said softly. "Just 'listen' to the surroundings, then tell me, which sound is most like an 'imprint'?"

Taylor closed her eyes as instructed, her long eyelashes fluttering lightly in the twilight.

After a while, she pointed hesitantly in a direction: "That... claw machine, when the claw drops, that somewhat clumsy yet persistent 'click' sound, and in the background, the muttering of a child who keeps trying, failing, and refusing to walk away."

Alex's eyes lit up: "That's it."

He took out his high-quality portable recorder and gestured for Taylor to record that sound herself.

Taylor was a bit confused but did as told, carefully capturing that repetitive "click" sound and the faint child's voice.

After recording, Alex quickly processed it in the car with simple equipment, highlighting the mechanical feel of the "click" and the subtle sense of powerlessness within it, pushing the background child's voice further back, turning it into a distant echo.

Then, he connected it to the car audio and played it for Taylor.

The short, looped seconds after processing were instantly filled with a peculiar imagery: mechanical repetitive effort, childlike persistence, and the faint passage of time and unfulfilled wishes hidden behind it.

Taylor's eyes widened instantly: "This... this is the 'anchor point'! Clumsy, stubborn, with a little bit of sadness... the imprints of memory!"

Inspiration flowed like a floodgate; she immediately took out her notebook and quickly wrote down a set of lyrics and a melodic motif.

On the way back, Taylor was very excited. "How did you know that sound was there?" she asked curiously.

"I didn't know which specific sound it was," Alex said honestly. "But I knew that the 'imprint' you were looking for must exist in the real, human-filled repetition and persistence. The pier amusement park happens to be one of the places where this kind of 'repetitive attempt' and 'tiny wish' is most concentrated."

He paused. "Besides, I believe your ears can pick it out."

This was not just encouragement, but absolute trust based on her musical sensitivity.

Taylor looked at his side profile as he focused on driving, and a warm current surged in her heart.

He was always like this, able to provide the most critical perspective or tool, yet leaving the glory and core of creation to her.

A few days later, "Spirit of the Wasteland" finally had some movement.

It was not a research result about the tape, but a new, more streamlined resource list and a short technical summary.

There were only three items on the list: a rare composite material used for signal shielding in extreme environments; access permission to a laser interferometer system for microscopic vibration analysis (to be used in a designated partner laboratory); and a screened, non-public archival index of several "historical large-scale anomalous acoustic events" around the world.

The technical summary mentioned that based on the cross-analysis of the tape signal and previous experimental data, the hypothesis that "there is a statistical correlation between specific historical global events and specific spectral anomalies" was preliminarily verified.

The next step required more precise equipment to verify the "source directionality" and the "information carrier attenuation model."

The wording was extremely academic, but Alex understood the meaning behind it: The research of "Spirit of the Wasteland" seemed to point to some kind of global, historical "anomalous acoustic phenomenon," and might involve the directional transmission and attenuation laws of information.

This summary gave Alex a chill of shock, more than any fantasy description.

The research was shifting from "peculiar individual phenomena" to "potentially existing macro patterns."

He approved the resource application without hesitation and had Marcus and The Architect cooperate fully.

He knew he was funding research that might touch the hidden veins beneath the surface of the world, with incalculable risks and value.

In the evening, Alex returned to his home in Malibu.

Taylor had already prepared dinner; the inspiration for the new song seemed to make her glow.

At the dinner table, she hummed the newly formed melodic fragment, and Alex tapped the edge of his bowl with chopsticks, keeping time for her.

After dinner, the two snuggled on the lounge chair on the terrace, watching the starry sky.

Alex's [Energy Perception] flowed naturally; he "listened" to the waves, the sound of the wind, and the stable energy noise floor of the electrical appliances in the house when they were in sleep mode.

That strange, prying frequency hadn't appeared for a long time, as if it had completely merged into the background radiation of the night, or, had left temporarily.

He pulled Taylor closer.

No matter what secrets were hidden beneath the earth's crust or deep in history, no matter if there were still eyes coveting from the shadows, the peace of this moment, the warmth by his side, the burgeoning career in his hands, and the curiosity and ability to continuously expand the boundaries of cognition, all constituted the most solid land beneath his feet.

Tomorrow, there were new collaborations to negotiate, new challenges to release, and new sounds to create.

And all of this filled him with continuous enthusiasm and anticipation for this "path to godhood under the spotlight."