The cult was a small one, rebellious to its mother clan. The three new members hated its ways of being open, hated the fact that the world knew of their existence. They hated answering to only one voice besides theirs, up the leftovers, if there was ever any. The elders claimed that they would earn their place among the solid leaders with time, and that their new future ranks would give them praise and honor.

It had been more than one hundred fourty years.

New members came and went. Mortals killed off the weak, the rest stayed, waiting for the elders' fortune telling to finally become reality in their palms. It was that fateful full moon night, a time where the enemy nomad clans would raid unknown territory in search for new temporary shelter.

Amidst the confusion and immortal bloodshed, the trio scurried away like rats into the unknown, maintiaining their pride and dignity with each step they took. They took refuge in a nearby village, getting their hands on the clothes of mortals and walking among them as if they were themselves, mortals. During the day, they slept in their new discuised home, and searched for new members.

Three turned into four, and for nearly seventy years, it seemed like enough. 

They needed one more, just one more member of their miniscule cult to fill in the gap. They traveled far across China, but soon returned to their home in South Korea in the mid 20th century.  They almost had had it. The four powerful immortals nearly gave up.

But then, they found their new suitor.