The Heir Perfection
Let me introduce myself. My name is Remiel Alkava.
Remi, if you prefer something simpler. Though honestly, even that already seems like too much effort for most people to pronounce.
For some reason, my parents chose a name that sounds like a fallen angel.
Ironic.
Because I’m not even sure I have the heart to care about heaven or hell.
I was born into the Alkava family.
A global elite family. And no — not the kind you’re probably imagining.
Not just ridiculously wealthy people with private jets and villas on every continent.
That would be too shallow.
Too predictable.
The Alkavas are a family that helps keep the world running.
Literally.
They make sure the balance of power stays intact, the global economy doesn’t collapse, and justice—at least their version of justice—is upheld.
Sounds noble, right?
Yeah… well. I’ve never felt particularly noble myself.
The Alkava family has always stood for justice.
No tolerance for crime in any form. Always walking toward the truth, no matter how bitter the path.
That’s what my father always says.
That’s what my grandfather drilled into us.
That’s been the foundation of this family for generations.
But for me?
Truth feels more like a burden I never asked to carry.
Ironically, my family believes I’m the one destined to inherit Alkava.
As part of one of the world’s most powerful families, I’m supposed to be happy.
Anything I want is always within reach.
I’ve never lacked anything — financially or physically.
My house has a private library bigger than most public ones.
A personal gym with cutting-edge equipment.
A collection of sports cars I don’t even bother counting anymore.
A private chef capable of cooking anything from anywhere in the world.
Personal tutors for practically every subject imaginable.
My life has been a fully checked checklist since birth.
And you should know something:
It’s boring.
Painfully boring.
And it’s not just about material things.
Physically, I’m… close to perfect, or so people say.
Tall — about 185 centimeters. Enough to stand out without looking unusual.
Clear pale skin. A face many people call handsome, though I’ve never cared enough to stare at a mirror for long.
Feels cringe, honestly.
An ideal physique from consistent training. Proportional muscles without looking excessive.
Smart — or at least that’s what people claim when I casually solve problems they struggle with.
Many say I’m perfection itself.
And I hate it.
Because perfection is bland.
Perfection has no taste.
No challenge.
No color.
No… anything.
Being born without lack, with everything provided, only made life feel hollow.
Empty.
Nothing colors it.
Most people struggle to survive. I don’t even know what struggle really means.
People chase dreams. I never had to — everything was already placed in front of me.
And what goes on inside my head often clashes with my family’s beliefs.
But I’ve never told anyone.
Not my father.
Not my mother.
Not even my siblings.
What’s the point? They wouldn’t understand.
They live believing justice and truth are everything.
Me?
I’ve never really cared about anything.
Maybe… not even about myself.
Justice?
Truth?
Responsibility?
Just empty words people use to justify whatever they want to do.
While my family is warm, sociable, and deeply committed to justice and truth, I’ve always been indifferent.
Lazy, even.
I don’t like social events.
I don’t like small talk.
And I definitely don’t like pretending to care about people I barely know.
Maybe that cold attitude makes me hard to approach.
Even for my own family.
Only a handful of people seem to understand me.
Honestly, I don’t even understand myself.
Sometimes I wonder — was I born like this?
Or did I become this way as a rebellion against the expectations stacked on my shoulders since birth?
Who knows.
Nobody really knows who you are.
Right now, I’m eighteen.
I’m disciplined about going to school.
I never act spoiled with my family.
And I don’t have friends.
Not because I’m antisocial — well, maybe a little — but because I’ve never felt the need.
What’s the point of friendships with people who approach me for my family name?
My looks?
Or what they think they can gain from me?
Plenty of people approach me at school.
Quite a few girls have even confessed.
Letters. Public confessions in class.
Some even cried when I rejected them.
All pointless.
I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing.
Love? Relationships? Dating?
Sounds like unnecessary drama I neither have the time nor the interest for.
Sleeping in class is basically my routine.
And neither students nor teachers dare disturb me.
Because despite always sleeping, I still rank first academically.
Back when I first entered high school, I was chosen to represent new students.
I remember standing at the podium in front of hundreds of students and teachers, delivering a speech I’d written five minutes before the event.
No preparation. No rehearsal.
Yet everyone was captivated.
Applause. Standing ovation.
And me?
I just wanted it to end so I could go back to sleep.
My dedication to laziness exceeds my dedication to events like that.
There was one time a teacher actually dared to reprimand me.
Honestly? One of the funniest moments of my life.
You know what happened next?
He ended up embarrassing himself.
Turns out I understood the subject better than he did.
It happened in physics class.
Mr. Aiko.
A man with thick glasses and a perpetually serious face, like he’s constantly calculating gravitational equations in his head.
A senior teacher. Supposedly once a professor at a prestigious university before retiring and deciding to teach at a high school instead.
To be continued…
