| Goal | Action |
|------|--------|
| Find official v04 | Go to creator’s Patreon → filter by “Posts” → search “v04” |
| Understand patch | Look for a “#changelog” or “#releases” channel in their Discord |
| Report broken patch | DM creator or post in their community help section |
| Get similar content | Ask for recommendations for “fate/destiny visual novels with raising sim elements” |
If you can share the creator’s name or fandom (e.g., Genshin, original work, etc.), I can give a much more targeted guide. Otherwise, treat this as an unlisted Patreon beta – your best info source is the creator’s own posts.
The following overview covers the development and update status of the visual novel Fate Won't Separate Us
, specifically focusing on the recent v0.4 to v0.7 series managed by creator (formerly RaisingPhallus) on Patreon. Overview of Fate Won’t Separate Us
Fate Won’t Separate Us is an episodic adult visual novel that utilizes a branched narrative structure. Development is primarily funded through Patreon, where tiers determine early access to new chapters, exclusive scenes, and high-quality renders. Key Development Milestones
The game has progressed through several major "path" updates, each focusing on specific character routes and narrative choices:
v0.4 and v0.5 "C*ck Path": These versions focused on establishing the core mechanics and initial branching for the "c*ck path" storyline. v0.5, released in mid-2025, served as a foundational update for subsequent narrative expansions. v0.6a and v0.6b "Cheating Path":
Content: These updates significantly expanded the "cheating path," adding over 700 new renders and 20 animations.
Technical Patches: A specific patch in v0.6b fixed Android-specific port issues where character messages (specifically from Jeremiah) were not appearing in phone conversations.
Audio: v0.6b introduced "lewd sounds" specifically for the new animations included in that patch. v0.7a Recent Release (February 2026):
The most recent major update further refined the "cheating path," described as the "most brutal update for Jeremiah so far".
Content Statistics: Added 555 new renders and 19 new animations.
Exclusive Scenes: New scenes were added for characters Gloria and Daniella, gated by specific Patreon membership tiers such as "Bizzare" and "Samuel-Uxor". Membership and Tiers The creator utilizes a tiered system to distribute content:
Uxor/Samuel Tiers: Typically receive the earliest access and exclusive scenes.
Bizzare Tier: Provides access to high-end exclusive content, such as full-scene animations.
Jeremiah Tier: Standard access tier for the general release of new chapters. Technical Implementation & Platform Notes
Engine: The game is built using standard visual novel software (likely Ren'Py) and supports Windows and Android platforms.
Subscription Warning: The creator explicitly advises patrons to avoid subscribing via the iOS App due to high commission fees that do not reach the developer. If you'd like to dive deeper, fate wont separate us v04 patreon raising patched
Instructions on how to install the Android port or apply specific patches.
The exact release schedule for the upcoming "Revenge Path" (currently paused).
Fate Won't Separate Us v0.5 c*ck path release dates, changelog.
Fate Won't Separate Us v0. 5 c*ck path release dates, changelog. Patreon.
Fate Won't Separate Us v0.5 c*ck path release dates ... - Patreon
In many Patreon-funded games, “raising” refers to a system where higher-tier backers get early access to specific routes, affection boosts, or even nameable NPCs. Sometimes, this manifests as an in-game “backer points” mechanic—think stat boosts, exclusive dialogue, or a relationship meter that rises faster for patrons.
With Fate Won’t Separate Us, the devs initially implemented a system where Patreon members could “raise” their bond level with key characters by entering a code. That feature, however, had unintended consequences.
Yes, especially if you:
Wait if you:
Where to find:
Rain blurred the city into watercolor streaks. Neon signs hummed like distant heartbeats. In a cramped apartment two floors above a laundromat, Mara pressed her forehead to the window and watched the street, counting the minutes until the message arrived.
Three months ago, a glitch had stolen half their lives: names, faces, shared routines—small things at first, then the ache of memory where warmth should have been. Whatever the glitch was, whatever code had bitten through the seams of their days, it had taken pieces of them both in different ways. She remembered the old songs, the coffee orders, the secret names they’d used in the first nervous weeks. Eli remembered maps and deadlines and the cadence of trains, but not the smell of rain on her jacket.
They had found each other again in fragments: a photograph pinned to a bulletin board in a café, an IRC ping from an account with no profile picture, an old playlist suddenly visible on a public server. Rebuilt, patched, tentative. Then the message earlier that day: “v0.4 deployed. Patreon raising patched. Patch notes attached.”
Mara had studied the patch notes like scripture. They read like a diagnosis—buffer overflow in associative recall modules; priority queue misrouted to archival storage; heuristics for semantic linkage reweighted to favor robust associations. The notes ended with a single line in plain text: Fate Won't Separate Us — emergency reconciliation protocol added.
She laughed once, a sharp little sound that tasted of disbelief and hope. Protocols didn't promise souls. Code didn't write devotion. But code could remind, could surface, could stitch.
Eli arrived three hours later, sodden, carrying a battered messenger bag and an old umbrella that had seen better days. He hesitated at the apartment door as if waiting for permission to step into a life he could not fully remember. Mara did not reach for an explanation. She opened the door.
"Did it—" he began, then stopped. The words he looked for were scattered in some distant cache. He crossed the threshold and set the bag down with a clack. | Goal | Action | |------|--------| | Find
"It patched associative recall," Mara said. "Some things are back."
Eli's eyes flicked to the worn sofa where two mugs cooled. He sat, careful, as if the furniture might shift if he moved too quickly. "I found a log," he said. "It was flagged as low-integrity. Your name was there. Not the whole name. Just—M. And a timestamp from the night of the blackout."
Mara closed her eyes. That night: the blackout that had swallowed the city and left them with half a life. She could still feel the adrenaline, the sound of the building settling like an animal finding sleep.
They opened the patch notes together, rough edges of technical prose and tender hacks. The emergency reconciliation protocol performed three tasks: surface high-confidence shared artifacts, propose overlapping narratives, and create a "relink" stage where both parties could confirm memories without overwriting independently verified facts.
"Do you want to try?" Eli asked.
Mara swallowed. Her thumb hovered over the key that would begin the relink. She thought of all the small things she worried about losing if the protocol misfired—moments that felt fragile because they had been regained at all. She thought of the months they'd spent tracing breadcrumbs, of the way Eli's face had softened when he read a line in a recovered chat log and guessed, correctly, the punchline that followed. Fate couldn't be rewritten by code. But the code could give them the scaffolding to find truth.
"Yes," she said. "One artifact at a time."
The first surfaced: a photograph, timestamped three years ago, under a tree with autumn like spilled coins. They laughed before they looked—familiar laughter that ached with recognition. The photo showed them sitting close on a park bench; Mara wearing Eli's oversized scarf, Eli squinting, both of them mid-sentence. The relink asked: "Did you experience this event together?" Buttons: Confirm / Deny / Unsure.
Eli stared at the image. A memory chunk arrived like a tiny lightning strike—sandaled feet on wet pavement, the metallic tang of cider from a street vendor, the stupid argument about whether to take the longer route. He clicked Confirm.
Mara watched for a wave of nostalgia to flood her chest. Instead, a soft warmth settled in the space between them, like a proof that two vectors could still converge. The system marked that artifact as "verified shared" and promoted adjacent associations—two lines of a song, a text message she had sent after midnight, a scrap of a recipe for tomato stew. Each confirmed artifact broadened the net; each confirmation nudged their private maps into overlap.
But the protocol was not flawless. Some artifacts surfaced oddly: a message addressed to "Mara" that used a word she had never used, a recording of a conversation where Eli's voice was younger, unfamiliar. The relink marked them low-confidence. Sometimes they clicked "Unsure" and let the artifact rest. Sometimes they tried to re-create the context—replay the song, make the stew, visit the bench—and the lost pieces still hid.
Late that night, with the city asleep and the radiator clunking its slow, dependable lullaby, the system surfaced a fragment that made both of them pause: an audio file labeled "promise.wav." They didn't remember recording it. The relink played a voice—thin with laughter and muffled by distance—saying, "No matter what, we'll write it back into our story. Fate won't separate us."
Eli's hands trembled. "I remember saying that," he whispered. "I must have—"
Mara pressed her palm to the speaker as the voice finished, then looked at him. She could not conjure the memory of saying those words, but she felt the afterimage of the promise, the gravity of intent. She clicked Confirm.
The protocol, like a faithful archivist, appended a note: "Emotional resonance high; consider manual corroboration." It recommended they mark more artifacts and propose a joint artifact: a present-tense affirmation to anchor future recall—a small act to seed memory.
"Let's make a new artifact," Mara said. "A recording, our own. So that even if something else goes wrong, the next protocol can't erase what we leave now."
They fumbled with the phone, laughing at how clumsy their hands were together, and recorded a minute-long message: names, dates, the stupid joke about mismatched socks, a promise repeated plainly—Fate won't separate us. They uploaded it, labeled it "anchor_2026-04-10." If you can share the creator’s name or fandom (e
The protocol indexed it as high-integrity and suggested distributing it to both their personal vaults and an external mirror. Mara shook her head. The more places a memory lived, the safer it felt—but safety had its own cost. Fragmentation then became redundancy. Privacy and permanence were in tension, like two birds on the same wire.
Eli tapped the screen. "We keep one private copy and one with the mirror," he said. "Not everything needs to be public."
Mara agreed. They set permissions, watched the progress bar of the upload like sailors watching a horizon.
In the days that followed, the protocol smoothed some things and left others rough. Eli regained, in scattered bursts, the cadence of Mara's laugh; Mara relearned the pattern of Eli's notes when he hummed while cooking. They rebuilt rituals: Saturday walks, a late-night market run, the small, ridiculous traditions that anchor lives. People they didn't know recognized them from restored photos and sent messages—friends from before the blackout sent grainy selfies and line drawings of inside jokes. Those little confirmations were stitches.
Not all repairs were technical. There were moments of grief for what had been lost entirely: a poem Mara had once written that didn't reappear in any archive, a rainy afternoon memory Eli could never retrieve. They adopted a practice: when a missing memory stung, they allowed themselves to mourn, to tell the story anyway—filling the empty spaces with imagination and tenderness rather than pretending the loss had never occurred.
Some nights fear crept back in. "What if it happens again?" Mara asked once, after a strange system update that renamed innocuous files in the night. The relink had flagged the update as safe, but their trust had been breached before.
Eli set his hand over hers. "Then we'll patch it again," he said. "Or we'll write the anchors better. Or we'll hold on to each other without the system. Fate or code—doesn't matter."
He was not dismissing the risk; he was offering a choice. They could be architects of their continuity rather than passive recipients. That resolve became a ritual: once a week they recorded together anything they wanted preserved—tastes, jokes, confessions, the little rules that governed their shared life. They labeled them with dates and private keys and stored them where only they could reach.
Months blurred like film frames. The city warmed into spring. The emergent patches outpaced new bugs: community groups formed around shared losses, engineers traded heuristics for memory reconstruction, volunteers digitized analog artifacts tucked in shoeboxes. People became better at making their lives resilient to the kinds of erasures that had once terrified them.
One evening, Mara found an old napkin folded inside a cookbook—a note in Eli's handwriting she didn't remember him ever writing: "If the world takes a piece of us, keep this. We'll find the rest." She read it aloud, voice trembling, and Eli smiled as if remembering a line he'd always known.
"Maybe we were always stubborn," he said.
They celebrated small victories: a recovered ring of keys, a joke that returned whole, the smell of a soup that felt like a place. They also celebrated the new things created from the absence: a poem using the gaps as meter, a playlist of songs discovered while searching for an old one, a tradition of leaving anchor recordings in each other's pockets before sleep.
The emergency reconciliation protocol matured. It learned nuances: the difference between a shared artifact and a shared feeling, the way two people could confirm different truths and still be honest. It stopped trying to be a single source of truth and instead became a mediator—a ledger of what they both agreed to hold.
Years later, older and softer around the edges, they would look back at the patch notes printed and clipped into a binder, ink slightly faded. Fate Won't Separate Us was no longer the name of a line in a debug log but a living clause in their daily rituals. The city had other problems—outages, updates, new vulnerabilities—but they had practiced repair and redundancy until it became muscle memory.
One quiet night, as rain once again made the neon bleed, Eli turned to Mara and recited, from memory, a line they had recorded that first week: "No matter what, we'll write it back into our story."
Mara smiled and finished the sentence they had practiced a thousand times since: "Fate won't separate us."
They did not need code to tell them they belonged. The protocol had only given them a map; they had spent their lives traveling it together. Where the map failed, they navigated anyway—two navigators who had learned that the measure of a promise was not whether the world kept its memory for them, but whether they kept it for each other.