SEOUL, South Korea — Should you fancy a slice of New York-style pizza served under the cozy, antique beams of a traditional Korea-style cottage, in central Seoul, Park Chan-ki is your man.

The friendly, youthful-looking 37-year-old has been serving pizza to customers on two tiny tables in his grandmother’s heirloom for a year and a half.

But come quick: He will not be serving in the tiny outlet, just a few minutes’ walk from the government offices, embassies and office blocks of Seoul’s central business district, for much longer.

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His business sits in the last cluster of “hanok” – traditional homes — and “golmok” – narrow, winding lanes — in Gwanghwamun, Seoul’s historic center. Save for the medieval palace at its heart, Gwanghwamun is dominated by towering modern high rises. Little remains of the pre-modern cityscape.

Mr. Park’s area is subject to “jaekebal” — the Korean word for “redevelopment” or “compulsory purchase.” Residents expect the bulldozers to be unleashed upon the district in 2026, or soon thereafter.

“To be honest, I am kind of sad: It’s part of our family legacy,” Mr. Park said. “But my dad is old, and when my grandma gave this place to him, she said, ‘Just sell it.’ He deserves the reimbursement.”

Stories like that are emblematic of South Koreans’ conflicted attitude toward hanok.

Well within living memory, these wooden-framed, single-story cottages, hunkered down under tiled or thatched roofs, were a defining feature of the country’s landscapes and urban spaces. Today, ground under by South Korea’s fast-paced, relentless drive for economic development, the original hanok are disappearing at an alarming rate.

Few South Korean households invest their fortunes in speculative capital markets, preferring the solidity of real estate. As such, cashing in on one’s investment is built into the jaekaebal phenomenon.

Construction companies can anticipate major profits from the cookie-cutter, multi-story edifices replacing Seoul’s scenic but low-profit clusters of antique buildings.

In this nation of 51 million, the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure and Transportation, or MOLIT, just 575 hanok remain. The number has been falling annually since surveys began in 2011.

“Before our generation, people educated themselves in, ‘We have to develop!’ and thought of hanok as old days, hard times,” Mr. Park said. “But the younger generation miss them: They have been to European countries and seen how they preserved their heritage and envy it.”

These contrasting attitudes are breeding unusual new dynamics.

Seoul is obliterating old hanok and golmok in a reflection of the tastes of those who grew up in them. But among the generation who did not, interest is rising in what might be called “neo-hanok” — repurposing the dwindling number of sites for use as restaurants, cafes, bars and weekend homes.

Dragging yesterday into tomorrow

That interest is served by a specialized campus of Jeonbuk National University, set in the slow-paced countryside of the country’s rural southwest.

Established under the auspices of MOLIT in 2011, the school offers courses in the theory, design and construction of traditional Korean architecture to students, including hobbyists, craftsmen and government officials.

This year, it initiated its first four-year undergraduate course. The last government-certified master craftsman of hanok is a member of the faculty.

It’s not meant as an exercise in historical reproduction, however, officials say.

“We are shifting from traditional apprenticeships to a modernized training system,” professor Nam Hae-kyung, who heads the college’s Hanok Research and Education Center, told a group of visiting journalists.

For example, Mr. Nam said, master builders in the past would not create a mock-up or even draw a design, but would construct directly from designs in their heads.

Jeonbuk’s blend of old aesthetics with new materials was visible on what Mr. Nam calls a “healing campus.”

Equipment ranges from traditional woodworking tools to buzzsaws and 3-D printers. Architectural models of upcoming projects fill one workshop and finished joinery another. An on-site museum displays antique architectural details — roof beams, tiles, joints — for students’ inspiration.

Outdoors, hard-hatted engineers were constructing a full-scale roof to be fitted onto an off-site project. Visiting architects watched craftsmen apply a traditional plaster mix to the structure.

The college has created hanok hotels, schools and government buildings. Many projects are additions to modern buildings – tiles, beams, paper windows – rather than full-scale, standalone dwellings.

The college donates student-built projects such as pavilions to schools, offers online courses and has even pioneered Lego hanok.

A handful of overseas projects include a pavilion on the roof of a Korea-themed mall in Manila and a hanok village planned for the southern state of Georgia.

Overseas, there is more space for creative freedom, Mr. Nam reckons.

“We have to modify hanok architectural methods for other countries, where there are different climates and different personalities,” he said. “But we have to keep our traditional architectural identity.”

The old-fashioned and the new

One of the college’s first undergraduate classes, totaling 11 students, is 31-year-old Jin Bin. “People my age say, ‘You are doing something old-fashioned’ – and that’s new!” he said.

After graduating, he expects to be engaged by specialized small and mid-sized businesses hired by local governments around the country to restore antique buildings.

Architects, too, are finding interest in the crafts of their forebears.

“I majored in modern architecture, but am intrigued by Korean traditional architecture, and that is why I am here today,” said Um Ki-sung, an architect visiting the campus with a group of colleagues. “I am applying elements of hanok architecture to modern design.”

Yet Mr. Um, who said he feels compelled to pass on traditional aesthetics, admitted that fewer than 10% of his clients request hanok design elements.

Lee Tae-woo, a bearded, sixty-something self-employed craftsman who looks like the epitome of the old-school Korean gentleman, is realistic about the challenges involved in preserving the old while making it new.

He grew up in a hanok, and restores old buildings as an independent contractor. But the tile-roofed, wooden structured and clay-floored homes are challenging to live in and maintain, he conceded.

“Hanok is not exactly the most convenient form of architecture,” he said. “We are trying to alleviate the inconveniences.”

Tellingly, Mr. Lee no longer lives in a hanok. Nor does Mr. Jin, the student, or Mr. Um, the architect.

Seoul’s biggest cluster of hanok squats in front of banks of tourist cameras in Bukchon, a district earmarked for preservation. But even there, in the district’s center Gahoe-dong, most antique hanok have been destroyed — replaced over the last two decades with modern hanok. Many are used as weekend homes by the well-to-do.

Nearby, the lively district of Ikseon-dong maintains several golmok lined with hanok. All have shifted from residential to commercial uses – cafes, bars, restaurants, boutiques.

Even so, the change in use — denoting renewed public interest in hanok — means that the danger that hanok will disappear forever appears to have passed.

“To the old generation, hanok was not special, but to the young generation, it is something special and unique,” Mr. Jin said. “Young people have a unique taste and love the aesthetics of hanok. It won’t end with our generation.”