The opening is the same: Atlantis, before it drowns. The water physics catch the light in ways the PSP’s tiny LCD never could. You can see the salt crusting on Kratos’s boots. But it’s the quiet moments between the QTEs that get you. The flashbacks to Deimos, his brother. The way Kratos’s voice cracks—just once—when he says his name.
“My son. You were named after the god of war, but you were never his. You were mine. And I am so sorry for what the world made you.”
You play through it. The volcano. The death of his mother, Callisto, who turns into a monster mid-embrace. The game wants you to feel sorry for him. And for a while, on that first playthrough, you do. You trick yourself into thinking Volume II is a tragedy. god of war collection - volume ii
The game doesn’t let you skip it. You just… stand there. Kratos stands there. The camera doesn’t move.
But Volume II ? Volume II is the hangover. It’s the PSP games, stripped of their portability, their “just one more level” pick-up-and-play nature. On a console, with no bus ride to end, you have to sit with the violence. You have to watch Kratos drown Atlantis again , murder his mother again , abandon his daughter’s memory again . The opening is the same: Atlantis, before it drowns
You know how the main menu for each game is a static image? For Ghost of Sparta , it’s Kratos on the throne. For Chains , it’s him chained to a pillar.
Just the black menu.
And after ten seconds, very faintly, you hear a little girl’s voice. She’s not screaming. She’s not crying.
And you realize: Volume II isn’t a game. But it’s the quiet moments between the QTEs that get you
The plastic case is cool, smooth—standard PlayStation 3 issue, that translucent pearl-white that Sony loved for a hot minute in 2011. The cover art is familiar: Kratos, ashen and scowling, dominates the foreground, the Blades of Chaos arcing like twin comets. But my eyes drift to the small text at the bottom: God of War Collection – Volume II .