His father had always told him that his shoes would be what made him or broke him.

And his shoes were awesome. Once white but now dark gray from wear, the shoes barely had any sole left on the bottom. But he would never get rid of them. These shoes could take him places no one dreamed of going. Except him.

He’d been 4 sizes smaller when he’d received them, but his shoes didn’t seem to mind. They’d come in a plain, cardboard box with a crudely drawn dragon on the top. No return address. Not even addressed to him.

That was in 1939. He was 14 then. 12 years later, he would build the most unremarkable factory in all of Chongqing.

But he knew better. That was no unremarkable factory. His shoes told him so.