Maintained.
Below is a refined version in the exact same standard, voice, and restraint as before—no tonal inflation, no modernization, no dilution. This is copy-ready and consistent with late-arc ROTMHS prose.
Refined Version
The stagnant water pooled in the narrow alley rippled beneath indifferent footsteps.
It was an alley so tight that two grown men could barely pass each other. A sight common enough anywhere—yet this place felt unmistakably different. Red lanterns hung from both sides, their light stabbing at the eyes, while an acrid, indeterminate stench made one's scalp prickle.
High-pitched laughter and desperate screams scraped endlessly at the nerves. Dampness clung to the air, steeped in malice, making the alley feel suffocatingly oppressive.
This was a street of indulgence.
Booze. Women. Gambling. Violence.
A place where those bored by ordinary pleasures came seeking stronger stimulation. More dangerous than anywhere else—and thus more intoxicating—this alley lured people in daily with its dense, blood-red glow.
Footsteps echoed.
A lone figure entered the alley.
Drunken eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, turned toward him. No matter how narrow the alley, moths drawn to flame were never few. A new face was nothing unusual.
And yet—
This man immediately drew attention.
First, his attire.
Eyes clouded with alcohol fixated on the clothes he wore.
A scholar's robe.
The garb of Confucian scholars—those who studied the classics or served in civil office. On the main streets, it would have gone unnoticed. Here, it was grotesquely out of place.
An alley steeped in raw human desire was precisely the sort of place scholars avoided. Confucian scholars—yusaeng—were creatures of principle, not filth.
The wandering gazes sharpened.
Humans instinctively reject what is different. The presence of someone so alien disrupted the fragile equilibrium of chaos that governed the alley.
Hostility quietly rose.
Had the man standing at the entrance been an ordinary scholar, he would have turned back under that pressure.
Splash.
Instead, he stepped forward.
Filthy water splashed against his ankles with every indifferent step.
Threatening gazes followed him, but the scholar walked as though he noticed nothing—or as though none of it mattered.
The alley's guards frowned and examined him more closely.
Only then did they notice what lay beyond the robe.
Though the garment was of fine quality, it was filthy beyond excuse. Not worn thin by poverty, nor frayed by time—but soiled, as though its owner had simply lacked the luxury of caring.
It did not look old.
It looked neglected.
As though its owner had passed through something that left no room for appearances.
Curiosity deepened.
But once they raised their eyes to his face, no one could focus on his clothes any longer.
The young man's features were unremarkable. Youthful. Ordinary. The kind of face one might pass on the street and forget moments later.
Yet his expression—
His face held nothing.
Not calm. Not cold.
Empty.
Not the emptiness of restraint, but the emptiness of loss—like something essential had been carved out, never meant to be taken.
And his eyes—
Usually dull and opaque, yet at times, a fierce glint flared within them. When it did, the scholar no longer seemed out of place.
He blended seamlessly with the alley's darkness.
Step by step, he advanced.
His exhausted body swayed, but he never stopped. As though walking this path was the only duty he had left.
"Hey."
A chilling voice called out.
"What do you think you're doing here? This isn't a place for a greenhorn."
"…"
The scholar did not even glance at the towering man. He simply kept walking.
The giant's face flushed.
Those with nothing left cling hardest to pride.
"You little bastard—!"
As the man reached out to seize him, a hand shot out from behind and stopped him.
"What?"
The giant turned.
A familiar face shook its head.
"Let him go."
"That brat?"
"Let him go."
The giant scowled, but eventually nodded.
When he turned back, the scholar had already moved far ahead—never once having acknowledged the exchange.
"Do you know who he is?"
"I don't know his name. But I know his surname."
"…What is it?"
"Ho."
"Ho?"
The giant's expression stiffened.
"…You mean that Ho?"
"Yes."
Understanding dawned.
If his surname was Ho, then he was not someone to touch.
Not for anyone who still wished to be human.
The giant's gaze lingered on the unsteady figure retreating down the alley.
Thud.
The footsteps echoed again.
—Give up.
The scholar's lips twisted faintly.
—He's not someone you can handle. You know that.
Of course he knew.
There were people in this world who could not be touched—no matter the effort, no matter the fury. Though they breathed the same air and walked the same earth, their worlds never overlapped.
—No one will help you. Even if they pity you. Even if they know it's unjust.
A quiet laugh escaped him.
Whether it mocked the speaker—or himself for having nothing to say in return—he did not know.
—If you want revenge, endure. Smile through hardship. Wait until the day you can personally bring him to justice.
When would that be?
After the criminal died peacefully, surrounded by luxury? While the one who endured gnawed on the scraps left behind?
Is that revenge?
—The world is unjust. That is why people like us exist. We must correct it. We must not deny everything out of personal emotion. Those who walk the difficult path are true Confucian scholars.
—Sins always demand payment. Even if you do nothing, he will fall someday.
—Is it not a waste to ruin everything for personal feelings? Think of the greater cause. The greater cause.
Splash.
Filthy water soaked his ankles.
Once, it would have repulsed him.
Now, he felt nothing.
What is clean?
What is dirty?
Is the powerful man who coveted modest wealth and annihilated a family clean?
Are the dead dirty?
What of those who preached righteousness yet stayed silent before obvious injustice?
Nausea churned within him.
What had he studied?
The laws. The systems. The benevolence meant to protect the powerless.
Where were they now?
He had worshipped emptiness.
If only he had laughed at it all—he could have died with his family.
When his father was beheaded, he recited the sages.
When his sister was murdered, he reflected on doctrine.
Who deserves judgment?
The one who destroyed his family—or the one who smiled, ignorant of their deaths?
Confucius said—
A gentleman seeks fault within himself.
Then perhaps the scholar deserved judgment most of all.
But he could not die yet.
Not while they lived.
Not while they ate his family's rice and drank his family's wine.
Thud.
He stopped.
Before him stood a massive red door.
No signboard. No name.
But he knew.
No drunkards lingered here.
No ruffians dared approach.
He knocked.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Without waiting, he pushed the door open.
Inside was another world—silent, heavy, suffocating.
"…Who?"
A thin man rose from the garden, blade in hand.
Not large—but the scholar tensed instantly.
A killer.
A butcher of men.
He had heard of this place.
A gathering of those who killed as easily as breathing.
But fear was a luxury he no longer possessed.
"I am…"
Venom filled his eyes.
"Ho Gamyeong."
"…Ho Gamyeong?"
"Take me to your master."
The saw-toothed blade twitched.
Ho Gamyeong sneered.
"White-Faced Demon."
He spat the name.
"I am here to make a deal with Jang Ilso