All ten thousand of them. Led by Sorrento's avatar, a black knight with a burning crown.
I held up a quarter—the same quarter Halliday had used to play Pac-Man for the first time. It wasn't a weapon. It was a token. ready-player-one
And then I saw it. Halliday had once written in his journal: "The greatest enemy is the part of you that refuses to let go." All ten thousand of them
Behind me, the sky filled with avatars. Art3mis. Aech. Daito and Shoto. And then hundreds. Thousands. Millions. It wasn't a weapon
I finished the game. My score: 1,000,000 exactly. The score Halliday never achieved.
I got it. Third line, third word—"shoulder," not "shoulders." Halliday would have known.
I went to the Third Gate: a perfect replica of Halliday's childhood bedroom in Middletown, Ohio. The gate wasn't locked by a riddle. It was locked by regret. I had to play a perfect game of Tempest —Halliday's favorite—while watching a hologram of his younger self crying over a lost friendship with his partner, Ogden Morrow.