August 1, 1935.
Yan'an, China
The dust came first, rolling in over the cracked flagstones before the people even arrived.
Yan'an wasn't a city in the modern sense more like a wound that refused to scab.
It was damp in the mornings, dry by afternoon, cold at night, and always hungry.
But here, in this former temple with broken doors and half-plastered walls, something was about to be declared that would rang through every valley and river of China.
There were no uniforms in the room.
Only patched jackets, mismatched boots, and tired eyes.
Soldiers sat next to farmers.
Cadres next to former students.
Some squatted on stones.
A few leaned on the back wall, rifles slung lazily across their backs.
At the front, Mao Zedong stood quietly beneath a single lantern.
Beside him, Zhou Enlai reviewed a stack of papers one last time.
Bo Gu was whispering something to a junior officer, though no one seemed to be listening to him anymore.
Mao didn't begin with greetings.
