The war room of Jakkan’s repurposed pyramid thrummed with a tense, electric energy, its high ceilings casting long shadows across the stone floor. Sobek sat at the head of a massive table carved from black granite, its surface inlaid with glowing naquadah veins that pulsed faintly like a living thing. Reports from his scouts and Goa’uld advisors lay scattered before him, their holographic displays flickering with data—maps of Wu Ren’s territory, troop movements, and technological assessments. The air smelled faintly of ozone and the bitter tang of ink from freshly printed scrolls, a blend of ancient tradition and advanced necessity that Sobek found both fitting and ironic.

  He rubbed his chin, golden eyes narrowing as he sifted through the reports. Wu Ren was no Jakkan. Where Jakkan had been a decadent fool, drowning in his own laziness, Wu Ren was a capable strategist, her rule a stark contrast to the chaos Sobek had just conquered. Her military was disciplined, a well-oiled machine of Jaffa warriors and specialized units that rivaled his own in training, if not yet in numbers. Even her slaves—unlike the wretched, broken masses Sobek had liberated from Jakkan—lived under a system that, while not prosperous, avoided abject poverty. Her technology lagged behind the advancements Sobek was cultivating, but it was reliable, functional, and deeply entrenched. Her people wouldn’t simply throw open their gates and welcome him as a savior. This would be a fight.

  His advisors stood in a semicircle around the table, their faces a mix of deference and unease.

  One, a wiry Goa’uld named Tareth with a sharp jaw and glowing eyes, stepped forward, bowing slightly. “My lord, Wu Ren commands a force of approximately fifteen thousand Jaffa, bolstered by a reserve of at least three hundred and fifty thousand trained slaves. Her fleet includes three Ha’tak motherships, though they are older models, and her Stargate is heavily fortified.” He gestured to a hologram, zooming in on a sprawling citadel nestled between jagged peaks. “Her population numbers in the hundreds of millions, but her loyalty is maintained through efficiency, not devotion.”

  Another advisor, a stout figure named Myrka, added, “Our forces now exceed hers by a narrow margin, thanks to Jakkan’s defectors, but her defenses are formidable. A direct assault would be costly.” Her voice was clipped, her gaze flickering to Sobek as if gauging his reaction.

  Before Sobek could respond, a deep voice rumbled from the shadows. “May I speak, my lord?” It was Khetar, Jakkan’s former First Prime, now stripped of his master’s sigil and clad in Sobek’s bronze-and-emerald armor. His jackal helm rested under his arm, revealing a scarred face and eyes that burned with a mix of shame and resolve. Sobek nodded, intrigued.

  Khetar stepped into the light, his massive frame casting a shadow across the table. “Wu Ren is not like Jakkan,” he began, his voice steady but laced with a bitter edge. “She breeds warriors—specialized Goa’uld she calls her Jackal Troops. They’re not mere Jaffa; they’re symbiotes engineered with a warrior’s mentality, fiercely loyal and relentless. I’ve faced them in skirmishes. They fight like beasts, no fear, no hesitation.” He paused, his gaze dropping briefly. “Jakkan knew of her ruthless nature. It’s why he kept her as an ally—he feared her strength.”

  Sobek leaned back, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the table. The room fell silent, the weight of Khetar’s words sinking in. Wu Ren’s Jackal Troops were a wild card, a variable he hadn’t fully anticipated. His new blaster technology—sleek, efficient, and now in full production—had proven its worth against Jakkan’s rabble, carving through their defenses with rapid, precise shots. But against staff weapons, it remained weaker, its plasma bolts lacking the sheer destructive force of traditional Goa’uld firepower. Worse, Hathor had already taken samples back with her, her golden claws closing around the prototypes with a smile that promised replication. The technology would spread, inevitably, across the empire—a double-edged sword Sobek had forged himself.

  He exhaled sharply, his mind drifting to a deeper realization. The Goa’uld were parasitic by nature, scavengers of innovation rather than creators. Their reliance on stolen advancements had kept them stagnant for millennia, a fact Sobek had exploited with his own ambition. But that same ambition seemed to have ignited something in Hathor—a flicker of curiosity, a hunger for progress he hadn’t expected. In the TV show from his past life, watched in fleeting moments between mundane days, Hathor had been undone by arrogance and miscalculation. This Hathor, though, was sharper, more adaptable. Had his meddling shifted the timeline fundamentally? Were the events he dimly remembered—SG-1’s victories, the Goa’uld’s slow unraveling—already veering off course?

  His thoughts spiraled outward, grasping at the factions he knew posed threats to the empire. The Asgard loomed largest in his memory, their diminutive forms belying a technological might that dwarfed even the Goa’uld’s stolen wonders. Their genetic degradation was a weakness, a ticking clock that could either cripple them or push them into desperate alliances—like the one with Earth’s SGC, gifting humanity weapons and shields that would topple System Lords like dominos. Then there were the Tau’ri themselves, scrappy and unpredictable, and the Tollan, with their aloof superiority. The Free Jaffa, too, stirred in the shadows, their rebellion a spark waiting to ignite. Sobek wasn’t yet sure which threats were active, which timelines aligned with his fractured recollections. But the Asgard… they were a linchpin. He could either preserve them, leveraging their decline to his advantage, or destroy them outright, snuffing out a rival before they empowered his enemies. A negotiated peace, like the treaty he vaguely recalled, was irrelevant—what mattered was ensuring he stood among the leaders shaping it.

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  A soft shuffle of feet snapped him out of his reverie. His advisors stood motionless, their glowing eyes fixed on him, awaiting his verdict. Sobek straightened, his golden gaze sweeping the room with renewed focus. Time was slipping through his fingers. Apophis’s attack on the SGC—vivid in his memory as a turning point—must have happened by now, setting off a cascade of escalation. Wu Ren wouldn’t fall quickly; a full-scale war could drag on for months, even years. The Goa’uld had lifespans to spare, but Sobek’s timeline was razor-thin, tethered to events he couldn’t fully predict.

  “Negotiation,” he declared, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Wu Ren is too strong for a swift conquest, and we cannot afford a protracted war. We will arrange a meeting—a neutral ground between our systems. Send her a message: I wish to discuss terms, not blades.”

  The advisors exchanged glances, some surprised, others nodding in cautious approval. Tareth bowed. “It shall be done, my lord. I’ll dispatch a Tel’tak with the proposal immediately.”

  “Go,” Sobek commanded, waving them off. “And ensure the message is clear: cooperation benefits us both. I want her response within two days.”

  As the advisors scattered, their robes rustling like whispers against the stone, two figures approached from the chamber’s edge. Hana and Karri stepped into the torchlight, their priestess robes a striking blend of elegance and authority. Crimson sashes embroidered with Sobek’s sigil draped across their shoulders, intricate gold thread weaving serpentine patterns that shimmered faintly. Their headdresses—delicate circlets adorned with emerald studs—framed their faces, accentuating Hana’s bold features and Karri’s quieter grace. They knelt before him, heads bowed in perfect unison.

  “My Lord,” Hana began, her voice clear and confident, cutting through the stillness like a blade honed by conviction. “The priesthood spreads swiftly. Dozens of temples rise in your name across Jakkan’s former domain. The people embrace your doctrine—your mercy, your strength. The Jaffa, too, are bending; many of Jakkan’s warriors now kneel in your sanctuaries, offering prayers where once they wielded blades.”

  Karri’s softer tone followed, a gentle counterpoint that flowed like a calm river beside Hana’s fire. “The conversions are steady, my Lord. We’ve elevated several of the former Jaffa to minor priestly roles, as you instructed. Their loyalty strengthens with each passing day, forged anew under your guidance.”

  Sobek regarded them with a faint smile, satisfaction warming his chest like the slow burn of a well-tended flame. Hana, ever the mouthpiece, radiated fervor, her eyes gleaming with a purpose that mirrored his own. Karri, reserved and watchful, balanced her with a quiet intensity that Sobek found equally compelling—a steel beneath silk he hadn’t anticipated.

  They had exceeded his expectations, their punishment not a fracture but a crucible, forging them into pillars of his burgeoning cult. “Excellent,” he said, his voice a low rumble of approval, resonant with the weight of his authority. “Continue your work. The temples must stand as beacons of my will—unassailable, eternal. Prepare my chambers for rest—I’ll need clarity for what lies ahead.”

  They rose, bowing deeply once more. “Yes, my Lord,” they intoned together, their voices a harmonious echo that lingered in the air like a sacred chant. As they turned to leave, Sobek’s gaze lingered on their retreating forms—the graceful sway of their robes, the soft clink of their ceremonial jewelry against the stone. Even as a Goa’uld, the hormones of his host stirred within him, a flicker of human desire threading through the cold lattice of his symbiote’s control. He smirked faintly, amused by the persistence of such impulses, a remnant of Milton Yeager that refused to fade entirely.

  As their figures vanished into the shadowed corridor, Sobek’s mind drifted to Jayaar’s laboratories, to the sterile chambers where lesser Goa’uld larvae writhed in containment fields, their genetic codes unraveled and rewritten under the scientist’s deft hands. The experiments were a gamble—a bid to transcend the limitations of symbiosis, to craft hosts so perfectly attuned to their symbiotes that resistance became a myth. These larvae, the overlooked dregs of Hathor’s brood, were weak in their natural state, often discarded for their inability to dominate even the simplest minds. But Jayaar’s work promised more: splicing human and Goa’uld DNA to create vessels of unparalleled loyalty and strength, beings whose very essence would bend to Sobek’s will without the clumsy struggle of traditional bonding.

  His golden eyes narrowed, a spark of anticipation igniting within them. If Jayaar succeeded—if the process could be refined—Hana and Karri would be the first he honored. They had earned it, not merely through obedience but through a devotion that bordered on the divine. He pictured them enhanced, their bodies infused with the vitality of the symbiote, their minds sharpened yet unbreakably loyal, standing as living testaments to his vision. Hana’s fiery spirit, tempered into a weapon of faith; Karri’s quiet resolve, honed into an unshakable pillar. They would be more than priestesses—icons of his new order, proof that discipline and reward could forge something greater than the Goa’uld had ever dared to dream.

  The thought lingered, a tantalizing promise amid the chaos of his plans. But it was a future yet unwritten, a possibility dangling just beyond reach. For now, Wu Ren loomed like a storm on the horizon, and the galaxy churned toward a reckoning he could feel in his bones. Sobek leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day settling over him like a mantle, heavy but familiar.