After about ten minutes, the pain vanished abruptly.
One moment, Shen Fei was still submerged in that boundless sea of tearing and burning. His consciousness was ground down, stripped away, dismantled and rebuilt over and over, until it was as thin as a sheet of paper that could tear at any moment.
The next moment, the sensation stopped. It was as though someone had snapped their fingers beside his ear. Every sound, every burning sensation, every wrenching pull receded at the same instant, cleanly and without a trace.
Shen Fei's consciousness swayed in that sudden stillness, like a man who had carried a thousand-pound burden for far too long and felt his whole body begin to float when it was suddenly lifted away.
He floated in darkness, with no up or down, no left or right, no forward or back, only the unnatural quiet that followed a raging storm.
He did not know how long he floated there. Perhaps a few breaths, perhaps longer.
He could not feel his body, his breathing, or his heartbeat.
But his consciousness was clear. He could sense that stillness, could sense himself slowly gathering back together, little by little.
He felt something beneath his feet: a solid, level surface of black stone.
He landed on it and planted both feet, his back straight and his knees unbent, standing firm.
He looked down at his hands. His fingers were long and slender, their joints distinct, his palms callused from years of holding a sword.
Those were his hands, Shen Fei's hands. He tried flexing his fingers, and every one bent and straightened obediently, the joints moving smoothly without the slightest resistance.
He tried circulating his spiritual power. It rose from his dantian and flowed through his meridians without obstruction, richer and more condensed than before.