The man called Chiang Yen woke to the thin light filtering through his tent, the air heavy with damp cold. Outside, the sounds of training broke the early morning quiet—the quick shuffle of boots against dirt, the hollow thud of wooden staffs hitting their targets. Some of his comrades were already up, working through drills with quiet focus, muscles tense and ready. The routines were precise, practiced in silence. He sat up, stretching out the stiffness from another night on hard ground. A thick fog clung to the camp, curling around the tents and blurring the edges of the clearing, shrouding the rugged landscape beyond. They were deep in the southern Jinggang Mountains, the stronghold of their Communist forces. It was March, 1932, and the cold air was still laced with winter’s last bite. Around him, the camp was simple and efficient—tents clustered together, gear neatly bundled and ready to be moved at a moment’s notice. Supplies were lean, but there was a quiet resolve among them, a readiness to press forward. This was their life now, moving as needed, gathering strength, and waiting for the right moment to strike. Once, Chiang had been a farmer. He had thought his life would be lived out quietly among rows of rice paddies and low, mist-covered hills, where the rhythm of days was set by seasons, not orders. He knew the land well—the way rain softened the soil, the smell of fresh harvest, the quiet satisfaction of work. But his life changed when he was conscripted into the Chinese Army. They had been taught the values of socialism, but half of the time Chiang fell asleep, because he could not understand the complex terms his lecturers used. But now, he was a soldier, and all he had to do was to train, sleep, train again, then go into a battle. As he was pondering this, his friend, Mao Shek, came over to him, water bottle in hand. He had woke up earlier and was training with the other recruits. Like the others, he was excited about the prospect of going into battle. ”Hey, Chiang! Come train with us!”