All Chapters of The God of War Calen Storm: Chapter 231
- Chapter 240
310 chapters
Chasing Ghost
Cassien Vale rode like a man chasing ghosts.The wind tore past him, whistling through the black and silver clasps of his cloak, and his stallion’s hooves thundered over the uneven hills as if matching the fury in his chest. His eyes, sharp as obsidian, never left the horizon, where a single bolt of lightning had shattered the sky moments ago—lightning without storm, thunder without clouds.He had felt it more than seen it, the familiar tingle along the nape of his neck, the faint hum that whispered against the runes etched along his gauntlets. It was unmistakable.“Stormborn,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve surfaced again…”He urged his horse faster, the beast snorting with exertion, foam flecking its mouth. The land below blurred—a tapestry of rock and shadow, thorn and grass, and in the distance, the forest that clawed its way up the sides of the ridge. He didn’t care how far it was. He would find Calen Storm if it was the last thing he did.***The scattered bounty hunters
Not Yet
Cassien’s gaze swept across the village like a blade. His eyes, pale and cutting, took in every detail: the trampled grass, the bent iron latch on a chicken coop door, the faint coppery stain smeared on a flat stone near the well—missed by most, but not him. He inhaled.Smoke. Ash. The sharp tang of blood.And something else—something fouler. A creature’s scent, burned into the dirt.His nostrils flared slightly.“Boar,” he said at last. One word. Flat. Knowing.Not an animal. A creature. The kind spawned from corrupted flesh and magic gone wrong.From behind a broken fence, a child whimpered.The elder stepped forward.He was tall for his age, wrapped in a ragged wool cloak that might’ve once been blue. His hair was silver, tied back with sinew, and his face was carved from stone—lined deep from years of loss, his gaze sharp as a hunter’s blade. In one hand he carried a staff not ornate, but worn, etched with crude symbols and burn marks that spoke of old rituals and darker memories.
The Trigger
The twilight deepened into dusk, and shadows stretched long and thin across the clearing as Calen moved along the forest’s edge, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign—any fracture in the terrain, any stone displaced by time.According to the map from the monastery, the forgotten passage should have been here—somewhere near the ridge that curved like a bent finger against the forest. But all he found was overgrowth and silence.Too much silence.Calen knelt by a moss-choked boulder, brushing away the green film to reveal markings—faint, nearly erased by time. He traced them with a finger, whispering to himself.“This was the seal... it has to be. The glyph of the Fourth Gate.”But where there should’ve been an entrance, a tunnel, or even ruins, there was only tangled root and earth that seemed untouched for centuries.He checked the map again, turning it slowly in the dying light. The parchment glowed faintly as moonlight brushed its surface, glyphs pulsing ever so slightly—but the
The Watcher
Calen sat cross-legged beneath the outcropping of weathered stone, the light of the fading sun flickering through the canopy above like the last heartbeat of a dying flame. His chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm as he tried to calm the storm within—both the one in his blood, and the one in his thoughts.Spread before him on a flat slab of rock were the items he had taken from his father’s study: brittle-edged maps drawn with ink so fine it had to be alchemical, a few sealed vials of shifting, iridescent liquid, and a pair of gloves reinforced with runes that glowed faintly when touched. He had once dismissed them as obscure relics or tools meant for ritual—decorative, even. But now he understood. His father had used these to channel or conceal power.Storm magic was never subtle. Even when wielded with precision, it reverberated through the fabric of the realm like a drumbeat that couldn’t be silenced. It called things. Drew eyes. And sometimes… worse.He ran a hand along the ed
You Must Be Callen Storm
Calen stepped into the forest.Not the edge—no, he had passed that long ago—but deeper now, into the part where light itself seemed reluctant to follow. The air grew colder with every step, the canopy above sealing tighter, like the jaws of a sleeping beast. Moss curled along the gnarled roots of ancient trees, and somewhere far above, the last threads of daylight bled away into dusk.They called this place the Wyrmsdeep. Others named it Drakhtarion’s Gate. But most didn’t name it at all—because most never returned.Once you go in, you don’t come out. That’s what the villagers whispered, even in places far from the border of this cursed wood.But Calen had no choice.He had to know the truth.His father, Aldric Storm—hero, traitor, or something else entirely—had come here. The maps didn’t lie. Neither did the old journal entries that Calen had found hidden in the double lining of his father's satchel. And if what the figure earlier said was true—if that really was a Watcher—then the p
Someone Wants You Alive
Calen’s breath caught as realization struck.“Cassien Vale,” he said slowly. “You’re the Cassien Vale. The legendary assassin.”Cassien chuckled, tugging the reins of his horse with idle ease. “I’ve never considered myself legendary, boy. Just efficient.”Calen’s eyes narrowed, his stance shifting subtly. “Then why are you here? Why chase me all the way to the edge of Drakhtarion?”Cassien’s expression sobered. “Because someone wants you alive, Calen. Someone who wants that more than King Ashford himself wants you dead.”That sent a cold ripple down Calen’s spine. “What’s happening? What the hell happened while I was on leave?”Cassien shrugged, nonchalant. “Don’t ask me. I don’t care. I’m not a court dog. I just finish what I’m paid to do.” His eyes sharpened. “And you, Calen Storm, are coming with me.”Calen’s hand went to the hilt of his sword in a fluid motion. The steel sang softly as it left its sheath.Cassien didn’t flinch. He didn’t even move.“If I were you,” the assassin sa
Mocking Voices
The forest whispered.Not in words—but in twisted instincts.At first, it was the trees. They looked the same—identical bark, identical patterns, as if painted by the same cursed hand. Calen marked one with his blade. Ten minutes later, he passed it again.His mark was still fresh.I’m going in circles.He slowed his breathing. The air here felt heavier, as if pressing down on his chest. The ground was soft, too soft—almost breathing. And the silence… the silence was wrong. Not peaceful, but expectant. Like the calm before a massacre.Then came the noise.Crackling.Like footsteps—but not quite human. Something dragged.Calen spun around, weapon ready.Nothing.But the path ahead… it had changed.It was clearer now. Open. Almost inviting.A narrow trail led through thorn-laced trees, bathed in an eerie blue light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.He didn’t trust it. But his feet moved anyway.As he walked, the air thickened with fog. Not natural mist—but something alm
The First Direction
Just when Calen felt the weight of the whispers crushing his resolve—the way they slithered into his ears and nested in his chest like parasites—something changed.A sudden stillness swept through the forest like a spell cast by some unseen hand.The voices stopped.The wind died.Even the rustling of leaves fell silent, as if the very forest was holding its breath.No sound… except a low, constant hum—distant, rhythmic, and almost imperceptible. Like chanting. Faint and far below.Calen froze, his breath misting in the cold air. He listened, heart pounding. The hum wasn’t natural. It pulsed in a steady cadence that stirred something ancient in his blood, something he couldn't name.He slowly crouched down. The ground beneath him no longer felt mossy and damp. It was smoother—harder.He brushed away the dead leaves and layers of damp soil with trembling fingers. A cold surface met his touch. Black stone, worn by time, revealed itself inch by inch. Faint lines etched across it. Symbols
Just A Man With A Sword
Another serpent coiled beside him, lips parting to reveal rows of needle-like fangs.“You are not welcome here, child of storm. You carry the mark of Drakhtarion, and the forest has not forgotten its pain.”Calen’s breathing quickened. Sweat trickled down his brow.He dove for his sword, rolling just in time to avoid a strike that cracked the stone where he had lain. His hand closed around the hilt, and he surged up, channeling what little wind he could muster.A gust exploded outward—weak, pitiful. It barely staggered the serpents.Still, it was enough to buy a second. He darted through the gap, blade flashing as he struck another creature across its side, opening another plume of that dark vapor.He didn’t wait to see if it fell.He ran.Roots clawed at his boots. Branches whipped at his face. The forest fought him with every step, as though it knew—knew—that he was trespassing where no living child of Drakhtarion should ever walk again.Behind him, the hissing rose like a tide. The
The Choice in The Dark
Darkness. It swelled around Calen like water—cold, silent, absolute. There was no sky above him, no ground beneath. Only weightlessness and the distant memory of pain. He remembered the cave. The serpents. Blood oozing from torn flesh. His vision dimming.Then—nothing.But now…His boots met stone.Not the jagged floor of the cave where he had collapsed, but something unreal—smooth and polished like obsidian glass, stretching into the mist. A narrow bridge, suspended over an abyss so deep it seemed to pull at the edges of his soul. Cold wind swept in from nowhere and everywhere at once, carrying whispers he couldn’t understand.Calen blinked hard. The air here was too sharp, too clear. Every breath stabbed like ice. He turned in place.There was no cave.No walls.Just the bridge behind him… and ahead.Then—A scream. Raw. Human.“Help! Somebody—please!”The voice struck him like lightning to the chest.Evan Drake.Calen’s breath caught as his eyes snapped toward the far end of the br