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It comes to him in his dreams. The wondrous thing inside his blood that tells him that he's special.
Look at the flaws everyone else has, it says, humming low in his eardrums. Look at how imperfect they are. Broken. Weak. Look at how they grovel at your feet. Look at how they let you make decisions for them.
Pity them. They're no better than mongrel dogs. Insects, even. Pathetic things demanding to be crusher beneath the heel of your boot. They would thank you for it.
He knows, more than anything, that he is better than them. It isn't just the warm feeling of magic that he weaves into something useful. It isn't just the fact that his mother is from a whole other realm of existence—making him heir to that place as well as here. It isn't just the voice that shows him the potential to unwind and remake everyone to be less terrible and more perfect. No, he knows he's better than everyone else because he is aware of that fact.
Everyone else is ignorant of their imperfections and he is aware of his perfection.
Ergo, he is better than everyone else.
And when he closes his eyes, resting after preaching to the slobbering masses, he listens to the singing in his ears that says you're special, you're perfect, everyone else is beneath you.
Because deep in his heart he knows it's true.